


Colder Than Ice

by thebeautifulfilth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boarding School, Family, Family Angst, Family Fluff, Family Loss, Family Reunions, Gen, Non-Canon Relationship, Other, Single Parent Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-08-01 20:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16291700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeautifulfilth/pseuds/thebeautifulfilth
Summary: Sherlock had never seen someone seal off emotions so completely, yet Stella displayed even less sentiment than Mycroft. He was determined to knock down her walls, but did he really want to see beyond her ice-blue irises and look at the depths of his daughter's soul?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fanfiction.net over the span of 4 years

As the brown-haired girl rummaged her drawers in search of her external hard drive, she came across a photo in a wrought iron frame. Despite her efforts, Stella's lips curled up to form a soft, fleeting smile. The sensation was foreign to her — as ordinary an action it seemed, it had been seven years since she last blatantly displayed a trace of emotions on her face. Yet with the smile, her ice-blue irises did not become bluer; her pale, heart-shaped face didn't gain any color. The grin, it seemed, made her pupils darker, skin paler, and lips purse tighter together.

_"Molly, will you pass me the beaker?" Sherlock asked, extending a hand in Molly's direction._

_"Sure!"_

_The detective's daughter hid below a lab bench, sneaking glances at her parents. When Sherlock asked whether she would like to join them she had declined, much to her parents' surprise._

_"Sherlock, Millie is her own person. Don't expect her to be a science genius, though it's more likely than not that her IQ is over two hundred," John Watson had said, shaking his head at the Consulting Detective. Molly simply chuckled._

_"Molly, the beaker?"_

_"Here, Sherlock! Listen, I have to sign some papers for Mike. Don't blow up the lab, alright? Love you," Molly said, swiftly kissing Sherlock. Millie giggled from below the bench, covering her eyes._

_"Mummy, gross!" She whined, earning a laugh from Sherlock. He walked over to his — their — daughter, and scooped her into his arms. Molly walked over to the duo, having heard her daughter's complaint. She tickled little Millie, causing her to burst into laughter. Sherlock merely chuckled, and quickly directed a glare towards the blogger who apparently snapped a picture of the happy family._

This picture so happened to be developed and framed, and Stella ran her fingers softy over the photograph that had gathered quite some dust.

That was the last prominent gleeful memory of her family.

It had been already seven years, and yet, the pain still lingered. Her family was no longer cheerful or complete, as opposed to the mirth captured in the photo by John. There were no Molly working in the morgue, no Sherlock doing experiments and goofing around with his wife, no Stella watching her parents from afar.

It was unsettling, really, to know how her family fell apart. She had always known that her parents hadn't got along well when they first met in spite of her mother's initial infatuation and adoration for her father. They had bonded after a particular disastrous case on Sherlock's part in their university days over solitude and mutual trust, as not much people knew Sherlock was alive; and Molly was empathetic and compassionate. She had the intellect that made her capable of being a professor in pathology in Oxbridge, yet she chose to remain as a pathologist in St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and offer Sherlock Holmes private counseling whenever he felt like giving up.

They were the perfect family, although people were skeptical about the match between Molly and Sherlock. Being each others' confidantes, it was difficult to find a family with stronger bonds between members than the Holmeses. To Stella, at least, she had lead a life of peaceful yet dynamic equilibrium, until the day when all  _hell_  broke loose.

It was a cold, yet warm day in January. Her father was working on a case with Uncle John at Edgware, his trustworthy sidekick. Mummy had a day off, so instead of heading to St. Bart's in the morning, Molly Holmes stayed at home with her. After a nourishing and fulfilling breakfast the girls settled into a game of hide and seek, with Stella hiding and Molly looking for her. Several times she had scared Molly out of her wits, popping out of nowhere after Molly turned the entire flat upside down in search of Stella. Yet on this day, Molly was infinitely grateful towards Stella's fondness of uncanny hideouts, for it saved not only her life, but also Sherlock's life.

_"Oh, come on!" Molly groaned. "You have to be in here somewhere!"_

_Stella giggled, snuggled comfortably on top of the kitchen cabinet, hidden away from Molly's line of sight behind a_ _steel board_ _. She peeked through the crack between the board and the cupboard, smirking to herself as Molly crouched on the floor, looking underneath the sofa when —_

_"Stop where you are."_

_Molly squeaked, turning around to face the intruders, only to see the_ _black barrel_ _of the gun. Stella, safely tucked away, held her breath and dared not make a sound._

_"Where's Mildred?" A man demanded, jamming the barrel of the gun into Molly's temple._

_"Millie — she's — not here."_

_Stella cringed. Her legal first name hadn't been the most attractive name in the world, but it had never sounded this malevolent. The way which Bad Man spoke her name made her feel she was inferior, which she refused to acknowledge or acquiesce to—she was the daughter of Sherlock and Molly Holmes, for God's sake!_

_Bad Man jammed the gun harder, and Molly winced. "Where. Is. Mildred Holmes?"_

_"She's at — she's with — she's with Mary!" Molly stuttered, and Stella still dared not to breathe even though she knew she was safe for the moment. Her mother had lied—the woman who always told the truth told a lie for her daughter's safety._

_She couldn't focus on the scene in front of her. She saw everything, yet she didn't see them. Numbly she witnessed the Bad Men tie Mummy up and throw her out of the flat, but her mind refused to register this action and comprehend the sight. ._

_At least ten minutes passed before she regained control over her shaken self. Shakily she hopped down from the top of the kitchen cabinet, wobbled over to Molly's phone — she didn't take it with her when they were playing hide and seek, and hence left it behind when she was taken away — and unlocked it. She scrolled through her contact list to find Daddy's number, and called him._

_"Molly, I'm on a case!" Sherlock's voice reached Stella's ears, and Stella sniffed._

_"D — Daddy?"_

_"Millie? What's going on? Why're you crying? Why do you have Mummy's phone?"_

_"Some — three bad men came and — and — and took Mummy away," Stella sniffed, struggling to speak._

_Sherlock swore, not caring that his daughter would hear the expletive. "Millie —"_

_"Y _—_  yes, Daddy?"_

_"Millie, Daddy and Uncle John are going to be with you very soon. I'll call Auntie Mary to take you to her house, and we'll meet you there."_

_Stella nodded. "Be quick, Daddy. Mummy told the bad men... she lied — she said I was with Auntie Mary."_

_"Uncle John just called Mary. She'll pick you up in a few since she's meeting some friends nearby. Meanwhile, don't hang up, Stella. Keep me on the line."_

_"Yes, Daddy."_

It was the last time she ever saw or heard from her mother. When Sherlock arrived at the Watson's flat an hour later, he sprang forward and crushed Stella in an embrace. "Daddy's here, Millie, Daddy's here."

A tear had escaped her ice blue eyes, sliding down her porcelain cheek and staining both of their clothes. Sherlock leaned back, and with immense sorrow wiped his daughter's tears with his thumb.

Stella might be young, being almost seven years old, but she was still her parents' daughter. Swiftly she rubbed her eyes, eliminating as many traces of tears as possible, and stared at her father. "Daddy, you'll find Mummy, right?" She asked in a clear, strong voice. Sherlock nodded, gazing at his daughter; and no matter how well he hid it, Stella could still see the guilt, sadness and despair swimming behind his ice-block-cold gaze.

It was the last time she ever allowed herself to he called Millie. Two days later she protested against anyone that called her by her legal first name; Sherlock included. His heart sank when he, with a heavy heart, called his daughter Stella instead of Millie or Mildred. The name Stella was picked by Molly, and Sherlock had picked Mildred for the sake of sticking to the Holmesian tradition of bizarre yet aristocratic first names. He didn't let Stella know, but every time he called his daughter, he would feel a hard pang in his heart.

The memory of her father's broken gaze on his usual indifferent countenance was forever etched in Stella's mind. She felt a lump rise up her throat, but she swallowed forcefully and held a fist in front of her mouth.

 _No,_ she reminded herself.  _Crying doesn't help the situation. Rationality is my only weapon, nothing else._

In spite of her efforts, nevertheless, she couldn't stop the stray tear rolling down her cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

The bell rang, signaling the end of Year Ten and the start of summer break. Stella Holmes silently gathered her belongings and held it in her arms, shutting out the excited chatter of the other girls in her economics class. She walked over to her friend, Ida Cameron, and stood by her desk. The black-haired girl haphazardly stuffed her books and pens into her bag, then walked out of the classroom with Stella.

"Stells, are you heading back to London?"

"Yes. My father will be delighted to see me."

"Of course he'll be. He's a busy man, roaming London with Dr. Watson to solve crimes, and he only sees you twice a year! Seriously, Stells, why didn't you go to school in London?"

"I wanted a change in scenery," Stella replied matter-of-factly, and Ida rolled her eyes.

"Anyway Stella, I've got to go. My parents are... well, being parents."

Stella raised an eyebrow. "Care to elaborate?"

Ida laughed. "Well, it's just that, they're expecting me to be home right after school ends, and we both know it's impossible."

"True. See you when Year Eleven starts."

"Sure. Don't forget to text me, or else I'll leave crazy messages on your dad's website and Dr. Watson's blog to demand you to text me!" Ida joked, and Stella simply stared.

"Have an enjoyable break, Ida."

The raven-haired girl waved, smiling widely. "See you, Stells!"

Stella nodded in acknowledgement, and proceeded to strode purposefully to her room. The room was in an orderly mess, just the way Stella liked it. Unused, old handouts were stacked on the floor according to respective subjects, some put into binders or tied into a bundle with black strings. The walls were of a bland beige color, adorned with different handouts, pieces of note paper and posters of universities and art festivals. She, at that moment, was grateful for Uncle Mycroft's influence, which caused her to be able to enjoy the privilege of using the same dorm room during the length of her studies in Harrington School for Girls. Setting the books and stationery still in her arms on her desk, she unbuttoned her jacket, undid the tie and changed into her casual dress, redoing her high ponytail into a side braid.

Her casual clothing were similar to her uniform. A black shirt, black skinny jeans, black sneakers and a black coat made up her complete outfit. Folding the worn uniform and putting it into the packed suitcases along with the items on her desk, she zipped the suitcase up, having packed everything she'd need in the summer into the case the day before. She tugged the luggage and a few travel bags to the door, and turned back to give the room a last glance before she left for summer break.

She then exited and locked the door, ignoring the photo frame that laid face-down on her desk, and the pang that went through her chest.

At her insistence she didn't go home by the sleek black car, but rather, by train. She flagged a taxi, telling the cabbie to drive her to Chesterfield railway station, then hopped off. Fumbling in her purse for a while she found her Oyster, slapped it on the Oyster machine, and entered the platform.

Chesterfield was a small station, and she had calculated the time of arrival just right so that she had to only wait for five minutes before her train arrived. With a gentleman who insisted to help her she heaved her luggage onto the train, then collapsed onto the window seat.

Going home was bittersweet for her. On one hand she was excited to see her father, his loyal comrade, Dr. Watson, and Mrs. Hudson; but she didn't want to go back to where she witnessed the most important woman in her life was abducted. This year marked the eighth year of her mother's disappearance, and Dr. Molly Holmes was still missing — not even the joint effort of the two elder Holmes men could recover her whereabouts. Stella didn't want to see anything that conjured a memory — no, a sentiment — about her mother, but a part of her wanted to be in Baker Street, longed to, yearned to. Constructing more iron gates around her own palace hadn't yielded much effect in blocking out trespassers and intruders, though.

Pronounced marks on shirt cuffs, definitely works in the office. Coffee stain on shirt, caused by his shaking hand making his coffee slosh and spill. Possibly from shock — no, anger — disbelief. Creases in the trousers in the knee region, cr —

The Consulting Detective groaned, his train of thoughts being cut short abruptly by the keys jingling at the front door. He opened his mouth to complain at Mrs. Hudson forcing his door open without his permission, and upon recognizing the swift yet forceful motions at the lock, he promptly shut his mouth, stood up and walked over to the door. The door swung open, narrowly missing his nose, and he was startled by the force of his daughter's swing. Stepping to a side he held the door open for Stella, and he softly smiled. "Hello Stella. Welcome back."

"Sorry I almost hit your nose Father," Stella nodded briskly. "And thank you for holding the door. I appreciate the gesture, though I believe I am capable of doing so on my own."

Sherlock stood with his back ramrod straight. He was a composed person, barely being surprised, yet the behavior or Stella absolutely puzzled him. "Alright," he nodded. "I suppose you will carry your bags upstairs, or do you require my assistance?" Sherlock asked with distant formality to match Stella's coldness, a tone he hadn't employed for a long time.

"If you will help me carry the travel bags."

"Of course," Sherlock held two travel bags in each hand, and followed his daughter to her bedroom. Wordlessly he put the bags near the door to her room, and then spoke up. "I'll be downstairs."

Stella nodded, and Sherlock walked downstairs.

Once Sherlock was out of her room, Stella took out her phone and punched in a text. "Arrived at Baker Street. —Stella"

Within minutes, Ida replied. "Did your dad blow up your room? —Ida C"

"No. Everything is still intact. —Stella"

She put down her phone and began to unpack, dumping books and copies of Cambridge Law Journal onto her bed, recreating a bed of books rather than blankets. She scattered a few pieces of lines paper onto the ground, throwing a few pencils around in the process. Half-filled pages were pinned on the wall, books were put into the shelf, the uniform put into the laundry basket, and Stella considered herself done in settling down in Baker Street for the summer. She sat down cross-legged on the ground, snatched a copy of Cambridge Law Journal, grabbed a random piece of paper and a pencil, and began reading.

Downstairs, Sherlock was pacing around, looking for clues that would explain his daughter's bizarre and puzzling behavior. Prior to this return Stella had always gave him a brief, quick hug when she returned home for Christmas or summer break, and she had never entered the house without greeting him. Yet today, Stella hadn't said hello nor good ev —

She also called me Father, Sherlock observed. Never, never had Stella called him "Father" before, not even when she was exasperated or annoyed.

This intrigued Sherlock exceedingly. How come he hadn't seen the signs before Stella became this cold, this distant, this scarily like him? Then again, he only communicated with Stella via texts, no phone calls; and he knew Stella was especially skilled in arts and could easily disguise her true feelings and emotions with a play of words.

What, for God's sake, was going on with Stella?

At this moment, he wished for nothing more than Molly's presence.

Sherlock knew Stella's behavior wasn't caused by any errors on his part. It was likely to be something that happened when she was away at Harrington. Was it something sentimental, something emotional scarring; or did someone say —

He shivered involuntarily, an unknown chill making itself known in his spine. No. It couldn't have happened. It is not a possibility.

Then it left the however improbable, but correct deduction—something scarred Stella emotionally. Yet what could Sherlock, unskilled in dealing with sentiments, do to help his daughter without the help of his pathologist? He hated to see Stella close herself off like how Mycroft and he did, but he couldn't help her — not without Molly's assistance.

"I'm going for a walk," Stella called out a few hours later, then slammed the door shut behind her. Sherlock looked up just in time, and barely managed a nod before his daughter vanished behind the door. Since her return to Baker Street Sherlock had noticed changes in Stella, and thus resolved to act more like an amiable father figure like John. He still had a long way to go, but he was already improving, and he'd like to think he was now a bit not good, rather than not good. Sherlock sat the conical flask he was holding down, careful not to spill the conical flask that was filled to the brim with methylbenzene — an imprudent decision on his part — and left the kitchen.

The kitchen, like his bachelor days, was still his laboratory — Stella wasn't home often, and he preferred dining at Mrs. Hudson's when he felt the need to eat a proper meal. When Stella was home in the previous breaks, she would assist him in temporarily clearing a corner of their dining table so they could eat like how proper families should — minus the missing mother.

Unceremoniously he plopped down onto his seat which he still occupied after John moved out to start a new life with Mary, and held back a curse as he realised that he had inadvertently sat on a evaporating dish and a pair of tongs that he apparently tossed carelessly there when he briefly took a nap on the couch a few days ago. He then proceeded to refocus on Stella's behaviour in her prior visits, cataloguing them into his daughter's room in his Mind Palace; and Sherlock couldn't help but notice a few - well, more than a mere handful of - discrepancies.

Stella Holmes was not an overly affectionate child, but she knew her manners. Not once, ever, in her life had she brushed past her father in such a haughty and indifferent manner - a manner comparable to her Uncle Mycroft when they struggled to conceal their true self. It was a trait I took upon as well, Sherlock noted; and at that moment, he realised that Stella was as much of a Holmes as a Hooper - a mixture of coolness and compassion.

Yet where did the compassion go? She would usually beg Sherlock to tell her about a case or two that were eights or more, and groan in exasperation before he spoke to explain his injuries when she observed some newly healed scars and wounds on her father's body. She was a compassionate individual, always looking after every person around her; but the Stella Holmes presented in front of her was distant and aloof - just like a person who believed that loneliness was what she only had, and what could protect her.

A sudden realisation hit Sherlock, and he jumped from his seat, unable to believe that he missed the blatantly obvious. Why were her clothes black?

Since enrolling in Harrington School for Girls, Stella had gradually shifted from wearing casual T-shirts to semi-formal light blue shirts, as it was a part of her regular school uniform. Wearing the uniform shirts seemed practical, as it reduced the need to purchase new clothes for weekends. It was also when she chose black high tops over beige trainers, probably because it matched better with the rest of her outfit; and dirt would less likely appear on the surface of black shoes than beige ones.

Sherlock didn't live with his daughter for the majority of the year, but he knew his daughter. She was a creature of habit, albeit a bit eccentric at times; and she would not change her attire simply because she felt like it, unlike what her other counterparts may claim.

Something had happened, and it caused Stella to suddenly prefer a black shirt over a light blue one. Trauma? Pain? Grief? Sherlock reasoned, before groaning in frustration. His daughter was a bloody hard puzzle to solve, and he thought his wife was already an enigma.

The thought of his still missing wife sent a dull pang in his chest, as if chiding him of his helplessness and trying to encourage him to figure out what in God's name was wrong with their daughter. Their daughter.

The Consulting Detective lowered his head against into his hands, muffling a dejected yell. He would be damned if he was incapable of figuring out what exactly was wrong with Stella.


	3. Chapter 3

_A whimper escaped Stella's lips as she held her knees against her chest, forcing her tears to stop flowing. It had been three days since she was suspended from school, and five days until the day which marked the eighty year of Mummy's disappearance from 221B Baker Street._

A teenage girl with reddish brown hair sat on the windowsill of her room, hugging her legs and resting her chin on top of her knees. The teenager shook her head, jostling the unwelcome invasion of reminisce out of her Mind Palace. It was unwanted, and an absolute waste of the precious space inside her own mind; yet this wretched event would always float stealthily straight into the sitting room of her palace.

_Alone protects me._

She remembered Uncle John saying that Daddy once claimed that solitude was his sole protection - not even Uncle Mycroft or Uncle John could offer the same level of protection that loneliness offered. If it was true, however, why did she still feel pain and betrayal even though she was isolated?

The room that she shut with a deadbolt forced itself open from the inside, evading its confines and invading the serenity that prevailed upon her Mind Castle. Ignorance originally aided her in pushing the memory at bay until she finished the work at hand, but it persisted and was the victor in the end.

_It was her who plagiarized my work, Ms. Griffin! It was her! Stella Holmes!_

Stella walked further away from the closet that housed Colleen Wallace, but the screams still haunted her. They, after all, were what made her leave, what made her leave the vicinity of the closet in the first place.

_Ms. Griffin, I can assure you that I never did not had the intention to plagiarize Ms. Wallace's work. As proved by my prior performances, I am a highly competent student in economics, not once scoring below 98% in every test and exam. Ms. Wallace's claim, therefore, should be rendered inaccurate. Why would I desire to plagiarize her work when she borders on the brink of failure? If anything, Ms. Griffin, I believe Ms. Wallace is the one at fault here to claim that I plagiarized_ her _work._

Stella groaned.  _Suppress it,_  a voice told her, and she repeated the mantra.  _Suppress the memory!_

Colleen Wallace's claws peeked from the closet, scratching Stella's pressed black shirt and the skin at her left wrist. Deeply she inhaled, forcing herself to remain calm. She then walked solemnly forward, steadied herself, and punched the extended claws, shattering the bones that once supported the fingers on the right hand. But just as she walked down the corridor away from the wretched closet, her knuckles began moaning in pain, even clicking loudly in protest when she attempted to flex her hand. Quietly cursing her luck she, with skilled fingers, bandaged up her lightly scathed right hand and then continued the walk away from her nightmare.

Yet the pain was still there. The sting of the betrayal didn't diminish. She had thought Colleen could be her friend - like how Ida was to her - but she was so wrong,  _oh_  so wrong.

It had all been a plan, a set-up that she wasn't able to see, simply because she was blinded. Blinded by hope.

Blinded by  _sentiments_.

And sentiments were what she got in the end.

In the end, Ms. Griffin declared Stella Holmes to be innocent of all accusations lodged against her supposed plagiarism of Colleen Wallace's economics essay, and Colleen Wallace was to be suspended for a week.

But the voices still wafted from the closet to her sensitive ears.

She hadn't wanted to hear them, but she did.

_Fake._

_Liar._

_She probably bribed the teachers for grades and threw a tantrum when they refused to._

_Well, her father is Sherlock Holmes. He faked his death and tricked the world. Not a surprise that she fooled us all._

The sting, the biting words - Stella took them without slightest bit of hesitation. Ida had been optimistic and hoped that everything would soon clear off, but Stella understood. She understood the situation.

It would never,  _never_  ever be the same.

It was when —

"Stella. Here you are," Sherlock addressed his daughter with evident relief, after searching through the silent flat only to see his little girl perched up on the windowsill. Her face showed extreme distress, but her eyes were cold, indifferent, with an air of detachment. The Consulting Detective found it hard to decipher the feelings pooling up behind her irises, but he wasn't going to give up.

In fact, he was certain Stella knew he was playing this game; only that she didn't acknowledge it.

"Yes Father?"

"John invited us over to dinner. Mary is anxious to see you - the last time she saw you was during Christmas."

"Give me ten minutes," Stella hopped off the windowsill and landed inside the room on fourteen  _Cambridge Law Journals_  with a thud.

"Certainly."

_She would not be weak. She would not let the emotions get to her again._

It was the last time that she would let herself be consumed by sentiments, and it would be the last time for her to break down because of it. It was a vow that she made - the first vow that she made to herself after what happened with Colleen Wallace.

_"Daddy, what are you doing?" A seven-year-old Stella had asked her father when they were in Baker Street one day. They had just seen Lord St. Simon with regards to the disappearance of his bride, and Sherlock Holmes currently sat in his usual chair, elbows resting on his knees while he rested his hand on his fingertips. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, not particularly pleased that he was pulled from his mind palace abruptly. He was about to snap at the intruder when he noticed a pair of turquoise eyes - so eerily like his - stare him down._

_"I'm in my Mind Palace, Stella."_

_"Mind Palace?" Stella cocked her head in confusion, the name of her father's unique system rolling off her tongue smoothly._

_Sherlock leaned back and rested his head against the cushioned headrest on his chair, and smiled softly at his daughter. At seven she was already exceptionally bright - with a queer aversion to science. John had told him off - rather nicely - that he shouldn't expect his daughter to be inclined to science, but should instead let herself develop into an individual. Stella's turquoise eyes were indeed a miracle - he never thought that Molly was only heterozygous for her chocolate brown eyes - and he was torn that he, on one hand was grateful that he wouldn't be vividly reminded of Stella's mother when he looked at his daughter, yet he longed to see those innocent, wide doe brown eyes for once more, just once more._

_He proceeded to explain the term to his daughter. "It is a place inside your mind, where you can store up memories and knowledge so that they become easily accessible."_

_Stella's eyes lightened, a ridiculous notion in the eyes of the boring people. "Does that mean that I can remember everything I read if I have a Mind Palace, Daddy?"_

_"You can also choose what to not remember, and what to ignore."_

_An excited squeal escaped the little girl's mouth, and she jumped off her seat opposite to Sherlock and launched herself onto Sherlock's lap. "Oh Daddy, teach me how to make it!"_

Stella grimaced at the memory. She was so innocent, so naive, so ignorant of the devils lurking out of reach, safely banned from Baker Street. At that time, the only grief that she ever knew was mummy being taken away - or rather, abducted - by a bunch of men that turned out to be from a Satanic worship clan. It had been more than eight-and-a-half years since mummy disappeared - 104 months to be exact - and still, nobody knew her whereabouts; not even the British government and the world's only Consulting Detective combined.

Grateful was she for asking Sherlock about his Mind Palace, however - it definitely was of utmost use when she was attempting to bury the memories of how Colleen betrayed her.

As she briskly walked over to her closet, she removed the grey sheet that she wrapped around herself and traded it for a black jacket. Her white collar was highlighted, left unbuttoned, was highlighted by the black clothes that she wore. Hidden deep inside her black shirt was a small brass pendant which she never puts on public display, and the only hint of the necklace was a thin silver chain that rarely peeked from below the shirt. On top of the jacket she donned her usual black jacket - London weather was always ridiculous, but it didn't mean she didn't love the place - and loosened her hair from the side braid. Once she was satisfied with how she looked with a brief glance at the mirror, she put on her shoes, fixed her jeans and strode out to see her father lying on the couch, obviously lost in his Mind Palace again.

Stella groaned. It took barely two minutes for her to dress up fully and ready to go, but her father was barely ready. Rolling at her eyes while silently musing who was the  _real_  child in their father-daughter relationship, she strode over to the pegs behind the door, took her father's suit jacket, and flung it right into his face.

"What?" Sherlock directed an annoyed glare at Stella, after rising in shock and letting the jacket slide down to his torso.

Stella gave a deadpan look, and with an equally deadpan voice, she said, "Dinner at Watsons? Does that ring a bell? No?"

"It does. Obviously I wasn't aware that it now took you less than... ten minutes to get fully dressed and ready to go. Remember that you took ten minutes and twenty-six seconds to get dressed for your departure back to school in January this year."

"Whatever," Stella rolled her eyes. "Ready?"

"Ecstatic," Sherlock cracked an overly bright and enthusiastic grin, causing Stella's lips to twitch in slight amusement.

The cab ride to the Watson's house was quiet, with Sherlock checking his email for potential cases and giving snarky remarks to DI Lestrade and DI Donovan, who had started to gain more respect for Sherlock Holmes over the years. Stella, on the other hand, simply looked out of the cab window when she caught sight of something peculiar, something she hadn't noticed before.

"What happened to Evah Pirazzi?"

Sherlock put away his phone and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Stella swallowed, and proceeded to elaborate.

"Healing wound on your left pinky finger. Caused by something fine, ad the wound was along the position where you change positions on the E string. You could only have gotten it if you used a brand of strings you're unaccustomed to. People only use a different brand for the E string if they choose to use two brands of strings, so it must obviously be the E string. So Father, is it Pirastro Gold, Hill or Westminister?

After Stella rattled off her deductions her father stared at her in amazement. "Brilliant. It's Pirastro Gold."

Stella quirked an eyebrow in response. "Ah."

"Please don't do this to John and the others though. They don't appreciate it as much as we do," Sherlock reminded his daughter once again, reminiscing the times when John and his wife would chastise him for being a smart-ass and a show-off for spewing out deductions as if everyone near him weren't morons... though admittedly, they  _were_  morons; and as he saw Stella gave a barely perceptible nod, he nodded in satisfaction and glanced at the fading trees and Tarmac outside his side of the cab.

Soon enough, the can pulled up at the Watson's house. Sherlock threw a few banknotes to the cabbie, and they both left the can, coats swishing around their bodies. The father rapped his knuckles on the door quickly, and a blonde, petite yet kind-looking woman opened the door. She affectionately pecked Sherlock's cheek and hugged him and greeted him. Turning to Stella she settled for another hug and another kiss on the cheek. Not sure how to respond to the shower of affections Stella only stood frozen on the spot until Mary withdrew her arms. It was then when she addressed Mary Watson. "Hello, Mrs. Watson."

This made Sherlock and Mary - and John, who happened to be just behind Mary when she had her heels on - start and snap their attention to Stella Holmes.

The detective's daughter, however, gave no notice to the surprised trio near her. It was Mary who recovered from the initial shock, and smiled warmly at Stella. "Hi, Stella. Please call me Mary."

John, having snapped out of the trance, stepped into view from behind his wife. "Hey, Stella. Can I take your coat?"

"Dr. Watson," She gave a minimal nod, and John gave a half-smile.

"Please, John."

"Okay."

Stella stepped into the large studio flat on the ground, and before she could fully register her location and gain her bearings, two pair of arms - masculine arms - wrapped themselves around her. One around her neck, one around her waist.

"Hey, S!"

"S!"

Stella flinched subconsciously, quickly accessing the situation. Judging from how tightly they clung onto Stella and how try affectionately called him S, she'd eager that she and the boys - Watson boys, obviously - had been close friends in childhood and in early adolescence. "Hey, boys," she tentatively called out - and to her relief, the two rascals detached herself from Stella and started squabbling.

"Henry took my robot!"

"I didn't! You told me to get it!"

"You did!"

"You lied, Irvin Alfred!"

"Boys, don't argue," Stella exasperated lay groaned. If she knew she was signing up to be a babysitter or a mediator to their conflict, she wouldn't have consented to joining the Watsons for dinner.

"Irvin! Henry! What exactly happened?" The former army doctor loudly spoke, stunning the boys to silence.

Stella took this perfect opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

* * *

"Sherlock," his blogger pulled the Consulting Detective to the coat peg behind the door, so that they were half hidden from plain sight by the coats. "What the  _hell_  is up with Stella?"

"I don't know, John," Sherlock admitted. "I am not aware of any mistakes that I had made prior to her arrival."

John stared hard at his friend, processing his words. "Wait," he raised a hand in confusion. "You mean she has been acting like this since she arrived?"

Sherlock nodded, and John rubbed a hand over his face.

"Well, that's a bloody hard case then."

"Case?" Sherlock's eyebrow shot up in alarm.

"Sherlock," John looked at the detective squarely in the eye. "This is a twelve. A bloody twelve involving a crap load of sentiments. And yes, I know the highest level of your scale is a ten," he held up his hand - again - to shut Sherlock up, who was about to interrupt. "But this is different. This involves  _your_  daughter, and you'll be dead ten times over if Molly's here and sees how you just ignore the bloody sentiments or chemical defects and let Stella continue to be like that."

"Brilliant," he uttered, sarcasm dripping from his voice.


	4. Chapter 4

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Lord Kelly?"

"There is more to this mystery than you let on, isn't there?" The Prime minister cocked an eyebrow as he put on his coat, after the immediate predicament was eliminated.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in response. "Why would you think that?"

Lord Kelly replied. "Trent may be a bit ignorant at times, but he is no imbecile. There is no way that the memory card is miraculously found safely tucked into the card reader."

"We all have our diplomatic secrets," Sherlock smirked, and with a swish of his coat, he was out of Baron Hope's mansion. John, sensing how his friend was about to snap from the tension imputed to Stella's current condition and the emotional intensity that Lady Kelly displayed in front of him, bid the three prominent figures in society a good afternoon, and then hurried to follow his friend.

"So, diplomatic secrets?" John asked as the duo exited Trent Hope's house. It wasn't the first time for John and Sherlock to take part in classified cases at Mycroft's request, but this was perhaps the only time when Sherlock showed hints of playfulness and pleasantly when working on cases.

The Consulting Detective shrugged. "That was the best way to put it."

"Not even an 'oh, just ask the lady' dismissal?"

"John," Sherlock turned to look at his blogger, a trace of exasperation in his eyes. "There are things he shouldn't know, and contrary to popular belief, I  _do_  know when to keep my mouth shut."

John stared at his comrade for a second, then turned to face the front again, this time taking the lead as Sherlock slowed down, obviously deep in thought. He didn't even realise that he had completely halted until John called out his name. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm? Oh, right," he quickly resumed his steps, and caught up with John after a few long strides. He remained silent for the rest of the walk and during the cab ride, closing his eyes and resting his fingertips below his chin as he reclined on the cab seat. The cab took him to the Watsons', where Stella and he had dinner a week ago with the Watsons. It was also where he truly discovered how much his daughter changed in the course of six months since they parted in January.

It was baffling.

The cab soon dropped them off at John and Mary's house, and Sherlock silently followed John inside and sat down in the nearest seat available. He resumed his thinking pose - shoulders hunched, elbows propped up at the knee, head resting on fingertips; trying to categorize bits and pieces of his daughter.  _Their_  daughter.

So immersed was he in his thoughts that he didn't realize John had made him tea and taken a seat opposite to him - just like the old days.

John took a sip of the tea, and rested the china on the saucer. "Is it Stella?"

After over two decades of befriending John Watson, Sherlock was no longer shocked by his ability to  _see_  things in a different, yet often useful, light. He offered a brief nod and briefly peeled an eye open before squeezing it shut.

"She forgot about Irvin and Alfred," Sherlock re-opened his eyes after ten minutes, and spoke after having a drink.

This earned a raised eyebrow from John. "She did?"

"Her eyes. Clouded by questions, yet piercing with the sharp, investigative gaze. She only observed that she was very familiar with Alfred and Irvin, and put her acting skills to use so as to convince your sons that she remembers them. It was all an act, though I believe she will remember them very soon."

"She also called me Dr. Watson, and she never called me that before."

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock snapped. "You're not the one to be formally addressed. She even called me 'father' when she just arrived at Baker Street, and apologized for almost hitting my nose with the door instead of greeting me properly."

"Okay," John inhaled slowly. "Now the key question is: why?"

"Thank you for stating the blatantly obvious, John. It is impossible for her to have been physically abuse under Mycroft's surveillance. No indication of romance was present, rendering her impossible to be broken emotionally and hence decided to shut people out."

John frowned. "What about others bad mouthing her? Slandering?"

His lips quirked and his nose scrunched as Sherlock considered the likelihood of such. "Slandering me and causing her such, not likely. Stella and I have a strong relationship and we established long ago that I am  _not_  a fraud. But slandering  _her_..."

He took a sip from his now lukewarm cup of tea, and stood up. Pacing around the room, he tucked his chin into his chest, hands clasped at the back.

"Black clothes, showing lamentation, mourning, bleakness. Jeans and trainers, practical yet not difficult to purchase, reasonable for students' daily wear. Still the coat she had had since she was thirteen, white buttonholes and black wool. Inquisitive gaze, signs of emotional detachment -  _oh_."

"Oh?"

Sherlock suddenly jumped up and down in the same spot, muffling a few frustrated screams and groaned loudly instead. "The Mind Palace!"

John raised a hand. "Okay, the Mind Palace. But what the hell does it have to do with Stella's change?"

"I told Stella when she was seven that a Mind Palace could help her choose what to remember and what not to remember. They can be placed in the most accessible room for easy retrieval, and locked away for forgetting about some particular thing. She must have encountered something that made her put this to use."

John nodded thoughtfully as Sherlock continued. "She is doing what I have been doing before The Fall, John. Believing that the body is merely transport and that sentiment is a chemical defect in the losing side. This has proven to be completely erroneous, but I'm not surprised that Stella will elect to do something similar to protect herself. And if I'm not mistaken, she is reluctant to do so for she is a compassionate girl at heart, but only forced to after some severe trauma."

"This might be irrelevant, but Stella never saw a psychiatrist after Molly was abducted," John supplied, and Sherlock snapped his attention to the blogger.

"Are you saying that unhealed emotional trauma  _and_  some recent events caused her to be like this?"

"This can be wrong," John explained patiently at the child in front of him. "But it's not impossible. She's not you, Sherlock. She's emotional - heck, even Lestrade can tell, and he isn't as close to Stella as Mary, you, Molly and I. And remember, sentiment is comes and can't be rationalised, so don't you dare dismiss this idea and say that 'Stella won't be affected by this so much as we think it would', because I'm sure you felt just as bad or even worse when Redbeard died."

"How did you know about Redbeard?" Sherlock icily asked, and John held up his hands in surrender.

"You kept mumbling about Redbeard when you were unconscious after getting shot, and I asked Mycroft."

The Consulting Detective grunted, and plopped into his seat, crossing his legs.

* * *

A knock at her door roused Stella from her concentration, causing her to look up from the mess of old court case documents and copies of law books and focus her attention on the visitor.

"Hello, Father," Stella greeted with a yawn. She then proceeded to reorganize the old cases according to the nature of the cases, ignoring her father.

Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Hello, Stella. How is the organization going?"

"Just finished with tort cases. Anything else?" Stella once again looked up from her work, her auburn hair falling out of her French braid. There was an overly cheerful and enthusiastic smile on her face, one that Sherlock Holmes knew too well.

She observed her father hold back a groan as he articulated what she deduced he would say. "Is everything alright?"

"Perfectly so."

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at her reply, and his daughter took this as a sign to continue. "I'm in my room analyzing old cases mentioned in the  _Cambridge Law Journal,_ while organizing the mentioned and related cases in accordance with the nature of the cases. I have gathered that forty per cent of tort cases are influenced by the judges' personal values, and that the verdict of at least fifty per cent of such cases can be overturned should an appeal be launched and a more neutral judge is appointed. As for criminal trials, had the suspect been a low-profile person, never having been exposed to public eye flamboyantly, I can safely say that their sentences will be significantly lower and more lenient because of the lack of public scrutiny. And judging from your shirt, father, Mrs. Hudson just brought you cookies, double chocolate chip cookies and gingerbread cranberry cookies as well as butter shortbread. You've already devoured one plate of double chocolate chip cookies and I suggest you refrain from eating any further to prevent another appointment with the dentist from happening.  _'Stella, would you like a snack?'_  I can answer you that yes, I would like them, and I'd appreciate it if you could leave five of each, bar double chocolate chip cookies, on a plate and put it at my door. I shall collect it as soon as I finish the tasks at hand. Hence as you see, I can observe well and I am conducting my own studies in the nature of crimes and the verdicts, and I have never been so fine in my life. So please,  _leave_."

Stella took a small, deep breath, and flashed another smirk at her father. "Thank you," she grinned, too brightly. Her smile slipped off her face when her door closed softy, and she glanced at the piece of paper in her hand at that instant.

_Market failure results w_ _—_

Scowling, she crumbled the piece of paper, while recalling her father's face with perfect clarity. She had scrutinized her father's expression with utmost concentration, and she could be absolutely certain that he was confused about her demeanor. She had never acted so dismissive towards Dadd —  _Father_ , she corrected mentally — so it was bound to arouse questions.

The confusion, yet, was intended. Stella had no intention of letting Father or Uncle Mycroft know about the extent of what happened in school, for she knew it would strip her of her freedom and make her a prisoner at 221B Baker Street - a place she was desperate to avoid, especially the living room - unable to roam in her own Mind.

Then, slowly, softly, the soft tunes of a violin concerto — Vivaldi's  _Concerto in E Major_ _—_ floated and wafted towards Stella, until all that she saw, all that she heard was the soothing, expressive melody that her father played. She recognised the piece to be one of  _her_ favorites, one that she had often requested Sherlock to play until eight years ago.

It was the first time for Stella to listen to her father play the piece alone, without another person in his vicinity, and she was shocked and moved by the sentiments flowing through every note, the emotions being let out from the bow weaving through the strings.

The thought of the music almost brought Stella to tears. The last time she heard this melody, the Holmes family was still complete, merry and mirthful — save for the eccentricity of each occupant of 221B Baker Street - and the surge of memories was overwhelming.

_No_.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing her two hands hard against her temples, struggling to lock the memories in.

_Lab_ _—_ _go left, down, into the room. Hyde Park_ _—_ _go right, up, and anther right, into the room. Piccadilly - go left, irrelevance discovered, discard._

Gradually, bit by bit, memories were restored, resorted and some discarded. Her mind was once again clear, free of any chemical defects lurking around. She quickly scanned her Palace, looking for latent triggers, and was glad to find none.

_Resorted, cleared._

_Focus._

_Caring is not an advantage._

Caring wasn't an advantage, isn't, and will never be. It brought her down, tore people apart, and took trust away among individuals.

And Stella knew, and firmly believed so, that the only way to survive was to not let anything destroy her.

Especially  _not_  sentiment, a chemical defect found on the losing side. It had almost destroyed her father and Uncle Mycroft, no matter how vehemently he denied it, as well as the late Uncle whose name she could no longer recall, who was a taboo subject in the Holmes household.

All Holmes men were subjected to demise by emotional failing; and she, as a Holmes, was bound to suffer from a similar fate. Shutting others out and living in solitude was, hence, the only way to protect herself, the only way to keep her heart safe — even if it meant hurting the others.

After all, she was all that she had in the end.


	5. Chapter 5

Summer passed by quickly, and before either Stella or Sherlock fully registered the fact, it was time for Stella to return to school. Unlike the previous times when Stella packed up for school again, however, she simply locked herself away inside her room and sorted out her belongings without help from her father or Mrs. Hudson, or anybody else.

Yanking open her dresser she saw, for the first time in the summer, a pair of jeans. It was of a light blue colour, and she remembered that it would match brilliantly with the pair of beige trainers she used to wear to wherever she went. The lovely shade of beige, when paired with the light blue jeans, complimented her slender figure and pale complexion; and it was her favourite outfit. She still vividly remembered how she begged Mummy - no,  _Mother_ \- to buy her three pairs of such jeans because she simply would not wear other trousers other than these.

What brought these articles of clothing from the bottom drawer of her closet to the top of the dresser she just yanked open?

The light blue jeans were a stark contrast from the collection of black and indigo jeans that Stella now preferred. They were practical, easy to purchase and fitted Stella perfectly. It highlighted her pale complexion, and they proved to be excellent and not constricting at all when she had to sprint in case of emergencies, nor would they tear should she carry out any activities overly strenuous.

It had been forever since she last saw a pair of light blue jeans, let alone wear one; and she absolutely did not want the sudden surge of memories breaking through the carefully constructed gates of her Mind Castle. The gates were there for a reason; she absolutely did not warrant a stupid pair of jeans breaking down her defences as if it was nothing at all.

Scowling, she yanked the bottom drawer of her closet open and threw the pair of jeans in, not even bothering to properly fold it. She was not going to wear it again any time soon, and she didn't care anything about creases or folds. The age of innocence had long passed, and she did not intend to re-visit it any time soon.

Packing proved to be a methodical task to Stella Holmes, and it took her less than hour to pack everything she needed for the term into her suitcases. A flute, three changes of clothes - she had her winter clothes stored in her dorm room, a washed and pressed uniform, a pair of black hiking boots and a few stacks of  _Cambridge Law Journal_  and notes were all that she was going bring back to Harrington School of Girls.

It was the last day of summer break for her, and she had to return to school the next morning. However, wanting to escape the morning rush on the road - she, like her father, was never a fan of traffic congestion nor boredom - she opted to return to school the evening before school officially commenced. As she lugged the two suitcases out of her room, the bounces the suitcases made as she descended the stairs alerted her father of her imminent departure.

Sherlock frowned, looking at his watch.

"Stella, I wasn't aware that you would leave this early. It is barely two in the afternoon."

"I wish to 'beat the rush', as what others would say, Father. The traffic is notorious in the morning in London, and I have no intention of being stuck in a cab for an hour when I could use the time caught in a traffic congestion to read a few more cases related to contract."

Sherlock nodded in understanding, though a scowl was still present on his face. "I was hoping we could have tea with the Watsons and Mrs. Hudson this afternoon. Is it alright if you leave London after tea, or even after dinner?"

"I suppose I could," Stella shrugged nonchalantly. She then turned around, tugging the suitcases behind her. Sherlock, seeing how Stella struggled to get the suitcases back to her room, rose from the couch and stopped her.

"Stella, it is alright if you leave your suitcases here. There is no point in you putting them back to your room when we are about to leave for tea with the Watsons and Mrs. Hudson, and when you are due to leave tonight. But if you insist, I can help you put them back to your room," Sherlock said, not quite understanding why his daughter would be so adamant in bringing her things back to her room. For God's sake, he wasn't half as organised as Stella when he was her age, and he could tell that his wife, though was an organised person, was less adamant on such issues.

Stella gave a barely perceptible nod, then took her flute before moving to the single seat near the fireplace. There she sat on the pane of the chair, fiddling with her flute before playing a soft, melodious yet hollow tune that danced around 221B.

A black-haired girl came into sight as the auburn-haired daughter of the detective opened the door after hearing ten consecutive knocks. Holding in an exasperated sigh, Stella opened the door wider and let the guest into the room.

Ida Cameron put down the small paper bag that she was holding on the desk after she entered Stella's room, and removed her coat. "Hi!"

"Hello, Ida," Stella plainly stated as a greeting, and gave a fleeting stare at the paper bag. She had known Ida long enough to know that she would not be offended at her lack of display in affection - or rather,  _sentiment_  - and went to make her friend a cup of tea. The black-haired girl took the cup of tea with gratitude, and the two of them sat side by side on Stella's bed.

"Is that for me?" Stella gestured at the paper bag, indirectly asking for permission to look into the content of the bag. Dr. Watson had once told her of how her father offended her mother with the string of deductions when her mother gave him a Christmas gift, and she was determined to avoid the mistake. After all, she was only trying to seal off her emotions, not trying to appear as a person without tact or courtesy.

Ida nodded, a faint hint of smile on her lips. Silently she encouraged her friend to open the gift, though knowing deep down that Stella probably already knew what it was. It, however, did not make her feel any less happy when her friend's silvery blue eyes became even lighter and brighter.

On Stella's hands was a miniature set of cleaning kit for her flute, but it wasn't what caught her attention. Rather, her eyes were fixed on the small, embroidered letters "STELLA" at the bottom right corner of the soft cloth. It took her a few moments, but Stella finally came to from her shock and faced Ida.

"Thank you," she murmured softly, the meaning of the two syllables she uttered not lost to either girls. It was without the normal precise and certain nod she would give to the others, but it did not mean that Stella mean her words any less. "How was your holiday with your boyfriend?"

Ida blushed a faint shade of pink, and averted her eyes. "How did you know?"

_"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" John Watson had bellowed in exasperation when the middle-aged man stomped out of the room in humiliation. "How many bloody times have I told you that deducing people is very not good?"_

_Sherlock muttered something unintelligible, and Molly softly chuckled to herself. Stella - otherwise known as Millie at that time - was with her mummy, and raised her head such that her clear, inquisitive eyes looked straight into her mummy's warm, amused brown ones._

_"Mummy?" Millie asked, a tiny frown on her face. "Why is Uncle John angry?"_

_Molly looked down at her daughter with love and adoration in her eyes, and said, in good humor, "Well, Daddy did something bad and Uncle John isn't happy about it."_

_"What did Daddy do?"_

_She was the ever inquisitive child, Molly noted, and further explained._

_"You remember how Daddy finds answer to questions by deduction, Millie?" Upon seeing her daughter's nod, Molly continued. "Well, not everybody likes being deduced. Daddy just deduced the man and he is angry. It made Uncle John angry too."_

_Millie had a thoughtful look on her face, her index finger pressing against her chin as she thought over what Mummy had just said. "Should I not say anything then?"_

_"No, Millie. One day, you will know that some things are better left unsaid, while some things need to be said."_

_"Really, Mummy?"_

_"I promise, Millie."_

That moment that her mother mentioned had come, and judging from Ida's countenance, she was glad that she didn't spew every deduction that flew across her mind when she saw the hint of a pendant hidden beneath the blue shirt.

"You seem... more cheerful than two months ago. Having a significant other is a reasonable cause for this, especially for girls of our age."

Ida had a faint smile on her lips as she took in Stella's words, grateful that she let her tell her the news rather than letting her let every deduction she could make from her spill from her mouth. "Well... yeah, I do. His name is Pierce, and we met in a service program."

"Interesting," Stella murmured, giving some sort of response.

"And he's really nice too, S.

Stella nodded. "That's good, Ida. I'm happy for you."

And she truly was.

_It appeared that Ida is dating a boy named Pierce for two months,_  Stella wrote.  _She seems reasonably happy, and I am extremely happy for her. I cannot say that I am glad about the turn of events, but whatever makes my friend happy, does the same to me too._

_I just wonder when will it come._

Taking a last look at the notepad, she tore the piece of paper out, and sealed it into an envelope. The envelope, after a few minutes, ended up in a white case at her feet.

School passed by swiftly, and soon it was time for the Christmas holiday. She did little, except for the routine that he already set out in the prior summer holiday, and the holiday, again, passed by and she was thankful for the return to school.

She feared that, if she remained in home for any time longer, she would not be able to handle the pressure in her.

Yet of course, as January passed and February became March, there came Stella's birthday. She stayed in school, as per usual, for it did not coincide with the Easter break. Her father, according to the little tradition that they had established, arranged for a package to be delivered to her in the morning before she left for school. Opening the wooden door to her room, she had almost forgotten it was her birthday until she saw the parcel.

_Mildred Stella Constance Holmes_

Her full name was printed on a yellow envelope, which very likely contained a card. Beneath the envelope was a brown paper box. She bent down and lifted the pack up, before rising and kicking the door shut, bringing her gifts into her room.

She scowled. She had never liked being called by her full name, and her first name was redacted from her school records, so nobody outside of her family circle would be aware of it.

_Unless…_

Was it her father who sent this, as a cruel joke?

_No_ , she dismissed that thought. Father would never type something out when he could write it; he never liked the hassle.

Wouldn't her uncle notice that a mysterious letter was slipped on her usual birthday package? Stella thought. Then she realised, had it contained a potential hazard, she wouldn't have been even able to set eyes on it – his men would have removed it immediately. Armed with the knowledge that she would be physically unharmed at least, she took a paper knife and opened the envelope.

_Happy birthday, dear. I'm so, so sorry I can't be here. You'll always be my little girl xx –M_

She put the letter aside, her mind in whirlwind. Why was the tone so familiar, and why did the entire  _card_  feel familiar with her as well? Deciding to ignore it for the time being, she set upon to open the package from her father.

The package was packed with a plain cardboard box, and everything reminded her of her father – the disdain for plainness in life, yet adoration for the lack of ornaments in the tangibles. Perhaps, she realised, she was not so unlike her father, and was in fact taking after his footsteps.

_Good,_  she nodded to herself.  _Alone protects me._

It was a mantra that she long held since that fateful day.

The brown-haired girl sliced open the tape carefully with a cutter. Inside the box she was mildly delighted to find not only presents from her father, but also well wishes from the Watsons. While Father sent her a purple scarf – she vaguely remember seeing the shade of purple in Baker Street – a steel-coloured engraved pen and a short note of tidings and the typical Holmes-styled birthday greetings, the Watsons put together a mug, a letter pad and a set of wax seal.

_For the blooming writer,_  the small card from the Watsons read.  _Happy birthday, Stella._

She gave a slight smile. The Watsons were evidently close friends of the family – the short message spoke volumes. They were aware of her distaste of overly elaborate and lavish expressions in interpersonal interaction, and kept the wishes to minimum yet endeavouring to put across the emotions. It was much appreciated.

Father's letter, on the other hand, was more detailed; she also found in the envelope a stately card with Uncle Mycroft's handwriting on it. He quoted Rudyard Kipling, and Stella's heart lightened at the subtle encouragement inside the words.

_If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,_  
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,  
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,  
If all men count with you, but none too much;  
If you can fill the unforgiving minute  
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,  
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,  
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!

Father's letter, on the other hand, was a lot less poetic. She chuckled softly at the contrast between the two siblings – they were so similar, yet diverse at the same time.

Her mind flew back to the letter. Some switch in her mind suddenly clicked, and she looked up with a start, as if she was electrocuted.

Stumbling to the third drawer at her desk, she pulled out a brown box. Flipping the lid open, she was shocked to find that true to her memory, she indeed  _had_ received letters like this prior to this day. Envelopes slid out of the overflowing box (which wasn't big to begin with) and they all were of the same texture.

With trembling hands, she opened the envelopes one by one, and aligned them with the respective envelopes. Then she compared the typography, the texture of the paper – card and envelope alike – with the previously received ones.

From what she could decipher, they were of the same texture, same typography. The resemblance was eerie.

Deciding to leave the matter up to the Consulting Detective's hands, Stella picked up the box which previously contained her birthday gifts. She then packed the letters into the box, arranged in chronological order, and tore a fresh page from the letter pad that the Watsons sent.

_Father,_

_I just received a letter from a person. Turns out I had received quite a few same ones in previous years, probably also on 12 March. Got quite a familiar and strange feeling to the letters, but could not exactly pinpoint which. Please find them enclosed. Letters are of the same paper type, typography and content._

_Stella_

"What on earth?" Sherlock was still in his dressing gown when he noticed the package lying on the floor in the sitting room. Baker Street had seen better days with both Mistresses present, and the vigour was long lost. This, however, did not stop the Consulting Detective from residing in it. After all, it was where Stella would come home to; wherever her home is, Sherlock would be there for her.

Picking up the brown box – he remembered using this for Stella's birthday package – he was surprised to see it returned to him. One look at the resealed box, however, had him assured that Stella had received the package.

It wouldn't explain, however, why was the box at Baker Street again.

Curiosity piqued, Sherlock heaved it onto his thighs and began tearing the tape apart (he was scarcely as meticulous as Stella when it came to opening correspondences). The contents, however, shocked him and he couldn't speak for seconds.

He found a letter from Stella, and a  _lot_ of identical envelopes.

What shocked him more, however, were the messages in the identical envelopes. Instinctively he knew who sent the letters – it  _had_ to be her – and he bolted upright. Running into his room to change into some proper clothes, he almost spilt the box in his haste to pick it up and bring it to Mycroft's office.

As he took a cab to Mycroft's office, one question was in his mind.

_Is it really Molly who sent these letters?_  He mused.  _It would be quite an indication that she was still alive – not that I ever doubted that –_

Sherlock's train of thought halted. Another thought crept into his mind, this time infinitely more worrying.

_Why didn't Stella remember the letters?_


	6. Chapter 6

"Stamford." The curly-haired man nodded in acknowledgement of the man who indirectly changed his life. He introduced John Watson to be his flatmate, and he was the one who hired Molly.

Stamford's usual smile was on his face. "Hello, Sherlock. You need to use the lab?"

"Please. If you have a mass spectrometer as well, it would be great."

The plump man laughed heartily. "A mass spectrometer! I see. So this isn't the usual experiments for a case?" Stamford had taken over Molly's role in assisting Sherlock in Bart's mortuary, and familiarised himself with the Consulting Detective's habit. Never had he used a mass spectrometer before, save for when he had to analyse the composition of some compounds in detail - and it had not happened often before, either.

Taking a deep breath, he answered. "Stella might have received a few letters from Molly over the years, It is merely a suspicion, but I was only recently aware of it."

"Letters from Molly Hooper - sorry, Molly Holmes? Old habits got the better of me, sorry about that."

Waving a hand in dismissal (in the more recent days, especially since Stella lost a mother and he lost a wife, he had grown to be more sentimental, and less dismissive of people than before) he spoke. "Never mind. The lab?"

"You know the way," Stamford flashed him a smile, and disappeared down the corridor. Sherlock, taking this as a good sign, turned and headed towards the laboratory, where he would find the equipment untouched and set up to his liking.

* * *

 

Mrs. Seville entered the classroom, holding a large stack of paper. The whole class groaned at the amount of work that this would imply, but Stella was not phased in the slightest. Studies would inevitably entail hard work; there was no use in complaining when the best way to get over it was to work hard and finish it as soon as possible.

"Class, I want you to work on a report on how the Battle of Trafalgar altered Napoleon's conquest. Mind you, I do  _not_  want purely positive or purely negative evaluation; I want to see a thorough analysis. I know this might be a bit challenging, but it would be beneficial in helping you construct essays for the upcoming exams."

More groans resonated in the room.

"The final report shall consist of a ten-page essay, with the standard formatting. You'll be paired randomly," Mrs. Seville paused to sternly look at a few girls in the far corner of the room, instantly crushing the hopes, "and I will read out the list."

"Leanne Wilkinson, and Taylor Cunningham. Gabriella Logan and Phyllis Ricaford. Ida Cameron, Iris Lee. Colleen Wallace -"

Mentioning the name was the only thing that caused a shiver to pass down Stella's spine -

"Stella Holmes."

_Oh, dear._

She hated to admit it, but any association with Colleen Wallace brought her a new unfamiliar wave of unease in her stomach - and she thought she had excelled in burying the memories associated with her inside her Mind Castle, when everything unravelled again.

"Hello Stella," a silky, smooth voice made itself heard next to the detective's daughter. It was tinged with malice, and if people did not look beyond the exterior, they would be drawn to her like a moth to the flame, for her appearance was simply  _angelic_.

Yet, even the devil's messenger from Hades knew better than calling Stella by her given name - the wrath unleashed was something that she would not wish to see on her worst enemies. Some said it was even more terrifying than when her father was furious.

"Colleen Wallace." Her full name was all that she uttered, as a form of acknowledgement towards the girl who shattered the remnants of light inside her.

"Shall we start?" The blonde gestured towards the stack of paper in front of Mrs. Seville's desk. In Stella's trance she did not realise that the entire class had already scattered and started working together on the project. Mutely she nodded, and followed the Wallace girl to a corner in the classroom.

* * *

 

The Detective picked up his phone and fired off several texts in succession.

_At Bart's. Bring all letter pad and envelope samples available from Tesco. -SH_

_Urgent. -SH_

_Tracing source of paper. Generic texture, nothing specific. -SH_

_Processing typewriter ink. -SH_

Two minutes later, his phone beeped.

_What the hell, Sherlock? That's a lot! -JW_

_My men will follow-up. Will arrange for samples to delivered; inform Dr. Watson. -MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's reply, and thrust his phone into his pocket, ignoring the angry written protests of the veteran.

Half an hour later the doctor strode in, and his eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock being - quite literally - buried in a mountain of stationery.

"What the hell?" He repeated his prior exclamation. The last time he had seen Sherlock act so frantically (and so beside himself) was for his wedding to Mary, when he made hundreds of folded handkerchief samples in wordless anticipation and dread of the big day with the Missus. The sight was almost comical to behold, and instantly he knew it was not just an ordinary case.

Sherlock groaned from beneath the pile. "Any help, John? Mycroft didn't mention that the samples would slide out of the box."

Chuckling to himself, John helped the poor man up. After he fixed his suit and brushed the dust off his collar, John spoke. "Letters? This is new."

"I suspect they're from Molly."

John raised an eyebrow. "Molly sent letters?"

"Stella received one for each of her birthdays since three years ago, but I was only recently aware of this."

"Wait," John raised a hand. " _Stella_  received one letter, possibly from Molly, for all her birthdays for the past three years, but you're only aware of it now? She didn't mention it to you?"

"That's the issue," he muttered. "I never knew until Stella wrote to me last week about it. Nobody would be aware of Stella's full birth name except for immediate family, and our family circle was already small." Stella's birth was announced, but the full name and date of birth were redacted from public announcements. Molly had hoped for a relatively normal (somewhat) childhood for the little girl, and Sherlock had agreed.

John picked up a letter and examined it after putting on some plastic gloves - Doctor's habits never went away. "It looks like the Concord paper that you order from Tesco's office delivery service."

"What?" Sherlock's ears perked up.

"My surgery used to order stationery from Tesco, and sometimes we got Concord paper in case we needed to print posh letters. The texture quite resembles that of this letter."

"Would it be possible to trace which order it was from?"

The shorter man blankly stared. "Sherlock," he slowly began, "they probably receive hundreds of orders each day, and those who got the stationery can resell them to four, five, or six further tiers of shops. And you don't know how old the paper exactly is, either - they could have been made twenty years ago but only used now."

A kicked puppy look came over Sherlock's face, and John felt his heart clench.

* * *

 

"For efficient collaboration, I would suggest splitting the work into six parts, each of us being responsible for two. You evaluate on the upsides of the Battle of Trafalgar, I the downsides. Then we exchange materials and review each of our stances, and to be followed with a sur-rebuttal."

Colleen smirked. "Are you that eager to get rid of me?"

"I have better use of time than you."

"Than me?" Colleen laughed, earning the stares of half the class. "What do you have, where's your family? Your dad might play dead again, and where's your mom? Oh, sorry, she's still missing, no?"

"I am not on the verge of failing like you, Colleen."

"Failing? Ha! You only plagiarized my work in economics, not the other way round, regardless of what teachers think. The truth will come out some how later, Stella Holmes!"

Stella simply stared at the hysterical young lady. "You're delusional."

The hysterical girl in question snickered. "You're the hysterical one."

"Shut up. You're thinking too loud, the idiocy is astounding."

That had Colleen Wallace shut up, and Stella scoffed. If she had known that her father's snarky remarks could silence a rival that quickly, she would have used them much, much earlier. Yet remembering to be polite, she stared so hard at the Wallace girl until she looked up in annoyance.

"What?"

"Thank you for keeping your mouth shut. I really appreciate it."

If Ida heard the exchange at the other end of the classroom and was almost dying from laughter, she didn't let it show.

* * *

 

History class was _horrible_.

Not only did Stella have to collaborate with the most abominable person that ever inhabited on Earth, she was, once again, subject to the relentless and meaningless taunting that Colleen directed at her. Why people would be so pathetic to target someone innocent she dared not inquire, but the remarks still  _did_  hurt, even if her walls were erected up high.

Was this why Father didn't let anybody into his heart, except for the scarce few exceptions?

She had heard the hurtful remarks, that Father was a fake, that he didn't love his wife - which was utterly erroneous, for she had witnessed countless revoltingly affectionate moments at Baker Street their home and the morgue - that he was a machine. Every single time she heard such an insult, she felt she was morally obliged and legally justified to sock the people in the face.

" _Daddy, why do people say such mean things to you?" Stella had once asked, one year after Mummy disappeared. She just got home from preparatory school, and what people said about her parents shocked her to the core. Thanks to her upbringing she never believed in the insults, for she both witnessed the truth that was not privy to the general public and was conditioned to believe in what was really the truth. Having the British Government as your uncle meant that the niece - Stella - would have access to materials that even the Queen might not see before the folders were distracted, and it further confirmed Stella's beliefs._

_Growing up in the Holmes household meant that facts were the truth, and opinions never would be._

_Sherlock bent down to pick up his daughter. "Because people are bored, Stella. They target their potential rivals, and make fun of them all in an attempt to elevate their self esteem."_

_"Does it work?"_

_"Perhaps," Sherlock mused. "I had never tried it before, for I was always at the receiving end of the mean messages. Looking back now, however, I do not think the verbal abuses got them anywhere in life."_

Her father's words, so deeply ingrained in her mind, resurfaced and encouraged her slightly. Yet the past was solidified, previous events did happen, and the wound was still fresh. If it took Father at least two decades to fully realise that the bullying meant nothing, how long would it take for her?

The best way to do so, thus, was to build walls around her heart, to prevent the words from getting to her in the first place. If appearing as emotionless would save her,  _she would do it_.

* * *

Ida dragged her from the classroom after class, and took her to Rhode's without a single question. She had observed from afar how tense Stella was, and decided that they both needed a break from everything that happened in these few days - Stella's encounter with Colleen, and her own family issues.

"I thought you needed to return home, Ida. Why are you accompanying me to Rhode's? I appreciate it, however."

Ida sighed. "They're arguing again."

Wordlessly they both continued walking to the cafe that had become their refuge, and Stella suddenly had an idea.

"Perhaps, if you don't mind," she spoke, "I could see if an extra bed could be arranged for you to stay in my room."

It was her way of offering Ida a solace from her home, she knew no better ways to put it across. A soft smile spread across the black haired-girl's face, as she replied in the affirmative.

Texts exchanged, arrangements confirmed. the two girls settled into their usual booth with their drinks and refreshments.

"What do you think of the future, S?" Ida Cameron inquired, as she bit into the pastry. "What do you want to study?"

Future. It was a word Stella would rather not think about, for living through the day was more important than having a thought on how the future should be. Even though she did not like spontaneity, going with the flow was what she would do for the moment.

After all, if things would go according to her wishes, would those depressing events have happened?

She shrugged. "Not in particular, but I would like to go into the legal profession."

"You'll make a great lawyer, with your logic and diligence," there came a warm reply. Ida's support was something that the detective's daughter would always appreciate, even if she did not often outwardly express so. Deluding the others into thinking that she was emotionless would ultimately be better… or was she also deceiving herself?

"Thank you, Ida," she replied. "What about you?"

A faraway look came into her eyes. It was hopeful, and there were this light that made her irises glow when thinking about the future profession. "Probably medical research, I hope. Epidemiology, if I can get in."

"You'll need a medical degree first," Stella quipped.

Ida scowled. "Hey, don't put a damper on my dream," she mildly chided, but both girls knew it was just bantering, nothing malicious.

"I forgot to mention the GCSE and A Levels too." A playful glint came into the reddish-brown-haired girl's piercing blue eyes. "Two years to go before we are in university."

"But having a goal would help me achieve what I want, and it would motivate me."

Stella nodded in appreciation of her friend's consideration.

"Isn't it fun to look at how diseases spread, why would they exist in the first place and how to collaborate with doctors to prevent them? They've taken so many times since the middle ages, and society has progressed. Why are we still suffering under the epidemics?"

The brown-haired girl tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nursing the mug of tea in her hands. "Well, I would say this is how humans are controlled."

This earned her a raised eyebrow. "Someone's feeling very philosophical."

Stella snorted. "Me? Philosophical? Ida, you must be mistaken."

Ida merely gave a cheeky smile in return.

"Things happen for a reason, yes, Stella, but it doesn't mean we can't change it. They'll turn out differently someday, we just have to live till that day," she resumed speaking in a serious tone. "And if it can be helped, I want to take part in helping that change take place."

Both girls knew that Ida wasn't purely talking about epidemiology. Stella's mind was taking a dangerous turn inside the Mind Castle, almost opening the locked door. But the corridors were already dark, and about to pull Stella into the Black Hole that would exhaust her entire being. Ida's presence was not in particularly helpful in stopping the treacherous slope from dragging Stella down, but it was her anchor.

With what happened in the recent days, Ida knew better than anyone – even more than Sherlock Holmes – that Stella should not be left alone. She might not succumb to temptations of narcotics, but she would still break, and it wasn't a sight anyone would like to see.

Especially with the Consulting Detective unaware of what transpired during the course of Stella's prior terms in Harrington (Stella had insisted that Ida stay silent) Ida was under an even bigger moral duty to keep her best friend on the balancing beam.

* * *

 

"Aren't you sleeping, Stella?" Ida asked, as she readied herself for bed. They had returned from Rhode's to Stella's room. It was a Friday evening, so they both left homework for the next day, neither of them feeling the mood to complete any academic assignments. They casually lounged around, Stella writing at her desk and Ida crocheting a shawl for the summer on the makeshift bed. They spent the evening in a comfortable silence.

The brown-haired girl in question turned her head to face her friend, almost ready for bed, before returning her attention to the flute that she was polishing. "Not quite yet, Ida."

"It's past midnight already."

She swallowed, not quite certain how to bring up this subject to her only friend. She should have expected this to come up sooner or later, for paper cannot cover up fire for long. Nevertheless, expecting the day to come did not mean Stella was ready for it. It would mean diving head first into matters that scarred her and made her fear - detest - sleep.

"I have some work to be done," she replied, assembling the flute. Stella then held up the woodwind instrument. "May I?" She asked.

Ida, whose head was already resting on the fluffy pillow, cracked open an eye. Seeing Stella holding up her flute, she gave a small but enthusiastic smile. "By all means."

Daintily, Stella held the flute up to her lips. Taking a short breath to steady her nerves, she breathed life into the woodwind, creating dancing notes as her fingers danced across the flute.

The tune was slow, quiet and soothing. Ida forced herself to enjoy a few moments of the beautiful melody before succumbing to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

When Sherlock checked his phone for the first time in the morning, he immediately opened an email from Stella's good friend. He had, in an attempt to keep subtle tabs on Stella, asked Ida to help him help Stella after he knew Stella met a friend.

He was mindful that he would turn into an inter-meddling moron like Mycroft, yet he reasoned – at least he wasn't kidnapping random people to safe houses for interrogation.

_Mr, Holmes,_

_Stella is living as usual (nothing in particular happened), but she's sleeping quite late - past midnight, in fact. She's working very hard for the upcoming exams, but I will try my best to help her._

_Ida_

Whether the email was a blessing or curse he did not know – he was glad that Stella was physically fine, at least, but her mental soundness was worrying. Nobody would close herself off so severely, not even Mycroft or him ages ago when they believed that the body was merely transport and not compatible with sentiments. He had grown to realise that locking up emotions was unhealthy, so did Mycroft; seeing his daughter completely block out any trace of sentiments voluntarily was a cause of concern.

He did not know what to do – emotions had never been his forte, yet he would try his utmost when it came to the ladies of his family. One was missing; another one had her own soul missing – things were not looking well for Sherlock Holmes.

Then he remembered. He remembered the day when he made a vow to protect those that he loved with all his might. It was when he realized that after all, he was still human; he was  _worthy_  of love and  _capable_  of love.

_It was a day with cool weather, beams of sunshine and soothing breeze. His wife lay in the hospital bed, tightly clenching his hand – in happiness or pain, he could not tell – as tears brimmed in her eyes. The birth was a painful one, with the precipitous labour barely handled, and they were just grateful that mother and child were well._

_The Holmes couple had already known the baby's gender, and things were already bought for the little girl that entered their lives that day. Names decided, nursery decorated, all they needed was little Mildred to join them._

_To say that they had already decided on the name was rather mistaken. They had only taken to name the little girl Mildred, for it was Sherlock's mother's middle name and they decided to name their daughter after her as a namesake. Molly picked the name Stella, for it denoted a star - she wished for her daughter to shine fearlessly in the dark and give light to the darkest obsidian canvas anyone would see. Constance, naturally, was Sherlock's choice. It was a classy name - nothing too regal or Victorian, but proper enough to please the older Holmes._

_"Hello Mildred, welcome to this world," he spoke as he looked down at the bundle nestled in her mother's bosom, an unfamiliar sensation of longing and protective instincts washing over him. He would vow to protect the little one - she was a living testimony of the love he had for her mother, and a proof that he had a heart._

_Molly looked up at her husband, and softly laughed. "I hope you aren't going to call her Mildred for the entirety of her life, Sherlock. It's going to be a mouthful." She paused to look down at the little girl. "Hello, Millie."_

_"Millie," Sherlock repeated after Molly, the name rolling smoothly off his tongue. "Not a mouthful, but retaining the characteristics. I like it."_

_"Then we shall call her Millie."_

The name on her birth certificate remained as Mildred Stella Constance Holmes, but immediate family would call her Millie, for the sake of convenience and intimacy. Her full name was always redacted from media reports and even announcement of her birth – they only said that "Mildred Holmes, daughter of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Molly Holmes, nee Hooper, was born in March 1998". No extra information was offered, people could go away back to where they came from if they dared snoop deeper into the Holmes' family affairs. If she was associated with Sherlock Holmes after she insisted being known as Stella, they would not pry into the reason, but one would say that the association was one easily drawn.

That fateful day, he had vowed – he had vowed to let his daughter grow into her own person, without interference from any single parties, not even Mycroft. Years of abstaining from sentiments had taught him a hard lesson and taken a toll on both him and Mycroft - and even the forgotten sibling that lingered in the deepest recesses of the elder Holmes brothers' minds. Blocking emotions had, for a while, protected both Sherlock and Mycroft, but they now grew to realise that it would negatively impact a young soul's growth.

He would not less his daughter become emotionless. He would not let his daughter become a block of ice.

Yet now looking at how Stella had grown to be, he felt like his heart was taken out, crushed, put back into his rib cage and further hammered in. Stella – a girl that they wished to shine like a star in the dark – was gradually growing into an emotionless, blank shell. Wouldn't it be Sherlock's fault of letting it happen? After all, Molly was still missing, parenting naturally fell upon Sherlock's shoulders. But would he really take Stella away from Harrington, in order to try helping her?

Unsure he was, about where this would lead. Anyhow, it would be the wisest to leave it after the GCSEs, for if Stella was by any rate Molly's daughter, she would loathe any sort of distraction from her studies save for a few encouraging messages here and there.

And that's what he did.

_I'm sorry, Molly, I failed you. I failed Stella._

* * *

The desk vibrated, alerting Ida of an incoming message from her phone or Stella's. One glance at the black screen of hers was enough to tell that it was the brunette's phone with an incoming message.

Gently she nudged the girl who was busy burying her head into the history textbook. Knowing that her friend wouldn't mind, she glanced at the screen, and whispered, "S, it's your dad."

Raising an eyebrow, clearly not expecting such a message, she mouthed  _thanks_ to Ida, then unlocked the phone to check the message.

_Chamomile tea relieves stress, and hot towels are good for sore eyes. —SH_

It was a hidden way of Sherlock telling his daughter to take care. If Stella knew her father and her conjecture was correct, there would be a package of chamomile tea bags waiting for her when she went back to her room later that day. She would also be inclined to think that it would contain some other herbal formulae Mrs. Hudson would conjure up to tide her through her exams. The gestures were unnecessary, for Stella could perfectly manage the exam period (she had been through worse in life) but she appreciated it nonetheless.

_Time to substitute my black tea collection with chamomile, jasmine and green tea —Stella_

_Not a bad idea —SH_

Deciding that it was time to stop texting and that she had had enough human contact for a day, she turned off the vibration on her phone, and walked back to her desk. Stella slid her phone into her bag, and returned to studying.

Her father's message was unconventionally encouraging, and she fought to resist the smile spreading on her face.

 _Didn't you vow to not let emotions cloud you again, Stella Holmes? The encouragement would do no good to your academics, your studies - you can only rely on yourself._ Remember?

The thought was toxic, if a bystander peered into her mind those the utterance repeated in an uncontrollable mantra, relentlessly urging Stella to forget the small remarks.

_Are you really going to let one small infinitesimal remark ruin your life and a future career in the law?_

Stella paused her reading, though her head remained buried between the pages. Were they all true? Would allowing some encouragement make itself known I her mind really ruin her?

She dared not hope, nor speculate. Brown tresses once again shrouded her vision. She would rather live forever in darkness, rather than risking the chance of being blinded once again by light after she regained her vision.

Some said she was a coward for being reluctant to go to the light - she, in turn, was selfishly depriving Light to see the beauty of the Dark. Yet she begged to differ. If she went into the Light, and then left because of expected or unexpected circumstances, the picture of Light would still be ripped apart, forming little silhouettes here and there. It would no longer be a perfect picture.

It would be completely ruined, the grandeur of Light.

And thus she would rather hide in the shadows. Unseen, concealed from the privy eyes of the public that thrived on seeing her fall, seeing her tumble, seeing her crush.

The black-haired girl beside her as her sink deeper and deeper into the Dark, but she could do little to help - what could you do, when y our secretly comprehended why she did so, and would prefer to do so? She was, however, the only person to truly see Stella for who she really was, the innocent, timid girl who was broken yet with a strong spirit that could instantly thaw ice.

The spirit was caged by ice now, and this was what Stella wanted people to believe.

But ice would melt, and with fire it would thaw.

When it does thaw, it would be a beautiful disaster.

Ida wished for the first victim to be Colleen Wallace, the blonde who broke Stella. She had remembered when Stella would laugh, would cry, would smile, and Colleen Wallace changed it. She caused her to seemingly care less, by cutting unnecessary people out of her lives and pretend as if she didn't. It wasn't selfishness, it was instinctive self-preservation. And it was understandable; wouldn't anyone else do so if they were betrayed by people whom they trusted wholeheartedly, albeit mistakenly?

Had Ida retaliated against Stella's wishes, she would have ensured that the devil was banned from Harrington, and that a restraining order issued. But the girl with jet-black hair cared too much to openly rebel against her friend. She had an inkling, too, that Stella knew Ida tried to protect her from further interference by Colleen Wallace, but neither girls broached this subject.

* * *

A DI I walked into the flat of 221B Baker Street, Mrs Hudson having let the door open for him after knowing he would call his steps were heavy, with dread evident in his gait. Unused to Lestrade acting in such a unfamiliar manner, Sherlock looked up.

"Lestrade?"

"Hey, Sherlock," he nervously greeted, rubbing his face with his free hand, unsure how to phrase his message, send uncertain how Sherlock would react.

How could he to the good man that the Yard was going to close the case of Molly missing?

"Listen, um," Lestrade began, trepidation in his voice. Subsequently he paused, unable to articulate the message that he was loathe to deliver.

Sherlock, unlike his usual self, held his tongue and stopped a snarky remark from flying out of his mouth. "What is it?" He opted to quietly prompt the Detective Inspector to find a way to deliver the message.

"Well, uh, they're stopping the investigation on Molly's case."

Time stood still for a few seconds, and Sherlock fixated his stare on Lestrade's face, unfaltering. "Whose order was it?"

His voice was quiet, deadly and laced with poison. It was not directed at Lestrade; rather, it was directed at the scenario. Time had taught Sherlock that it would do no good to lash out on the poor, good man that was the only competent detective at Scotland Yard, but it didn't mean Lestrade couldn't feel the dark aura emanating from him.

Lestrade swallowed. "It's the Commissioner."

Silence ensued.

"I... I can keep the cold case file, and let you look around on your own, mate," he offered, after a few minutes of stillness in the room that almost suffocated him. "Though that's the most I could do."

It took a further three minutes before Sherlock found his voice again. "Hmm," he acknowledged. "It would be great, Lestrade."

After a moment of hesitation, he added, "thanks."

"Not a problem, mate. I'm sorry. Uh, and Donovan wanted to give you this."

Mentioning the name of the fellow female DI caused the Consulting Detective to look again at Lestrade, yet exposing the vulnerability in his dejected eyes. Curiosity, however, got the better of him, and he opened the package to find a tri-folded map, with different crosses marked on it.

"She heard about the paper, so she pulled some strings and found the manufacturers. Knows people who work there," Lestrade explained, gesturing towards the map. "It's a lot, and we're not sure whether it would work, but I thought you might want to have this."

"Thank you," Sherlock simply uttered, engaging himself into scrutinizing the map. Lestrade took this as a cue to leave Baker Street, to leave Sherlock to his own thoughts.

Once, he might have been worried that Sherlock would fall back into his unsavory habits after discovering that Molly's case would be closed; he saw the change in the good man, and it changed. He might have lost a wife, but he still had a daughter - a daughter that he vowed to protect. If he started using drugs again, it wouldn't only be a disservice to Molly's memory, but also to Stella.

He only hoped that he had a say in the Commissioner's decision in closing Molly's case.

* * *

 

A few hours later found Dr Watson in the Commissioner's office, with a Mr Holmes standing next to him.

"What do you mean, 'continuing to investigate this case would be absolutely useless'?" The former army doctor glowered at the police chief. After hearing from Sherlock and Lestrade that the missing person's case about Molly would be closed soon, he was more dejected than angry. Now, after storming up to the Commissioner's office, demanding explanations, boy, he was absolutely  _furious_.

"Dr Watson, this case hasn't had any new leads in almost ten years; do you expect my men to continue investigation? Besides, she's been missing for more than seven years; she is already presumed dead."

Sherlock Holmes, who went along in the hopes of getting to the bottom of the truth (because he could remember vividly that Molly had once told him – when things were a matter of perception rather than facts, it might be a wiser option to talk through them, rather than deducing them) slowly stood up from the chair. "Presumption of death  _in absentia_  is but a presumption, it is rebuttable."

"Do you think I don't know it? I'm the Commissioner, not a Consulting Detective."

"Only 1% of all missing persons population are declared death  _in absentia_ , Commissioner," he sneered, contempt tainting the last word he spoke. "Do your research."

"Have you heard from her in the past ten years? No. The letters, you say? Do you have proof that they were written in the recent years, rather than when she was alive?"

A vein popped in the soldier's neck. "Are you," he seethed, "insinuating that  _Molly Holmes is a fraud?_ "

"Heaven forbid, I will  _not_  have  _my_  wife presumed dead when  _you_  morons couldn't figure out a single clue about why she was abducted," Sherlock shot daggers at him. It would be one thing to declare him a fraud, but he had the nerve to insinuate that his  _wife_ would fake his death. He found it astonishing and sickening that the Commissioner would think Molly would fake her death or stage her own disappearance, when she knew very well of the consequences that would entail – after all, all those years ago, Sherlock Holmes  _had_  indeed faked his death due to the lack of practical and safe alternatives.

The Commissioner remained silent, and the doctor spoke. "The Holmes clan is  _not_  of a fraudulent lineage. I thought you were the first few that acknowledged Sherlock's 'survival' after he reappeared twenty years ago."

"That was more than twenty years ago, John," Sherlock muttered, but omitted to voice it out loud. "But you will listen to me," he threatened, leaning forward such that he was level-eyed with the Commissioner. "Consider closing her case again, and you will say sweet goodbye to your necktie."

A look of horror spread across the Commissioner's face, and Sherlock knew he got the message across. There might not be any active assistance from the Yard regarding the case anymore, but he could work on it from the side-lines at least.

"Good try, but the case's still closed."

The Consulting Detective and the doctor both stared him down for three full minutes, tension and fury thick in the air before they both turned, closing the door with a  _bang!_  that almost shook the room apart.

* * *

 

"How — how are they, I — ?"

"Remember, dear, I am now Isabel." They both had adopted a new identity just two days ago. Seven years on exile had taken a toll on the both of them: being unable to utter your own name made you yearn for it.

"How are they, Isabel?"

A brunette chuckled, tugging the grey scarf tighter around her neck. "They're doing well, Judy. Physically, at least."

"Be honest with me," the blonde-haired woman demanded. "How are they?" Her emerald eyes blazed with fire, aggravation clear in her eyes. She was desperate to know how her beloved ones were doing, and Isabel's answers weren't helping.

"He's throwing himself into work again, and she's—well, she's a bit difficult, but it is to be expected, dear."

"Is she—is she behaving like how her father used to?"

"I'm afraid she took after her father more than you'd like to hear in these circumstances, Judy. I truly am sorry."

The blonde, Judy, sobbed, her frail frame shivering and shaking as she wept uncontrollably. "Oh, oh, my poor Clara. Why did this have to happen to her? My husband must be terribly worried, isn't he?"

"Yes, and her uncle also feels helpless. This is worrying, Judy; I'm sorry you all had to go through all this."

"Then why did you make me stay here? Isabel, why?" Judy yanked the brunette by the collar, her fingers caught in the faux fur. She glared at Isabel, frustration, anger, desperation clearly written across her face. Tears pooled in her eyes, lifting the shade of emerald forced upon her irises to show a hint of chocolate brown.

"They'll all die if you didn't leave, Judy."

At this, she collapsed onto the ground, tears seeping through her brown jumper, staining her lavender blouse. The thought of her daughter, being cold and distant; and her husband, retreating into his former shell and becoming a workaholic again, dug deep into her heart, crushing her chest. It was hard to inhale, hard to exhale, and harder to accept. She wanted to pull Clara into her arms, comb her fingers though her wavy brown locks—if she didn't flinch away, that is—and see her baby girl smile. She wanted to see the earth-shattering grin on her husband's face again, even if it was for one fleeting second—just to know that he was okay, that he was still living, that he was still here, and that their daughter would be fine.

"But," Isabel breathed, with a barely discernible smile adorning her lips. "In two weeks' time, Judy, you can go home—at last."


	8. Chapter 8

"Stella?" A girl with raven black haired nudged her friend, who was walking along the road with her. "Do you want to sleep over at my place for a day or two?"

The girl in question mused over Ida's proposition. It was the last day of exams, and they were due to go home. This would be the official end of year eleven; when they returned they would be in the lower sixth form. No more frolicking around, no more stress-less days - they would have to start worrying about university application, about their future.

Needless to say, Stella was torn between wanting to escape Harrington, and not wanting to go back to Baker Street. "Would your parents mind my staying at your house, Ida?" She inquired. "I would hate to intrude."

She shrugged. "They like you, actually, and they won't be home for the week. It'll be okay"

Stella nodded, then, in acceptance of the invitation. "Shall we leave tonight?"

"Do you have enough time to pack? We can leave tomorrow morning too, I can come and bring you there."

"It doesn't take long for me to pack, Ida," Stella gave a small snort. "My belongings are scarce."

The hidden meaning of the words were not lost between the girls. While Ida was jealous that Stella could stay away from home - because after all, who would like to stay at a house where the parents argue daily? - Stella was equally envious of Ida, because she had a place to call  _home_.

Home had become a foreign concept to Stella after her mother's abduction.

True, her father was there, but would it ever be complete again? Years flew by, and her mother had been missing for about ten years (she had forgotten the exact duration of the disappearance; it hurt to think about that day). Hope that the missus would be found was slowly trickling away, and Stella was not a stranger to misfortune leading to lifelong heartbreak. The law reports she read were a living proof of mysteries turning into tragedies.

She had no intention to let irrational hope blind her to the grim reality.

* * *

"Excuse me, do you make this type of paper?"

John slumped on top of the counter in the shady paper factory, out of breath. His companion, Sherlock Holmes, was busy looking around the interior of the factory, and ignored the good doctor.

The owner of the factory stared at them, rather amused at this trivial question, and picked up the sample. He then pulled out a few trays of paper, and began testing the texture and weight.

"It's kinda hard to tell, mate," Peter replied. "We make a few like this. Where d'ya get it?"

Sherlock approached the counter. "It's for a case."

The owner paused, thinking over his words. He knew of Sherlock Holmes' reputation; even if he was truly clueless, he felt that he owed the fellow for saving his cousin's life. "Tesco is our biggest buyer, and then it's some small companies here and there."

"Don't you have a record of your transactions?"

"It's a paper factory, how unclear can the sales get?" Peter rolled his eyes. "Some's on paper and some's computer, and God knows where's the rest."

John cursed mildly under his breath, with the expletive sounding suspiciously like a certain word that would make morons absolute geniuses, and Sherlock simply  _tsk_ -ed.

The red-haired paper factory owner stared at the duo. "Come on, I really can't help with this! What case is this?"

"It's Molly."

The atmosphere suddenly grew heavy within a millisecond, and nobody dared to break the sound of silence.

* * *

 

The brown-haired girl dragged her bags into the Cameron household, her friend closing the door behind her. True to her words, Stella had few personal belongings - she had had the other things carried back to Baker Street already or donated to the shelters. Unable to stop herself from admiring the decor of the house, she spoke. "This is a splendid house, Ida."

Ida's lips merely twitched, and the girls were not lost upon the small sign. What would make a home if the hearts did not belong, even if there was beautiful interior furnishing? They both had their past, moments that they would not want to re-live.

"Thanks, I guess," she said, black eyes staring ahead, the water in them stagnant. "You can stay in my room, I can set up an extra bed."

"Thank you."

The meaning of the two-worded response was not lost upon them. Stella seldom thanked people, and as the only few that she could wholeheartedly trust, the words meant more than gratitude over the bed - no, it covered a much wider range, a scope that ranged from her usual stillness to the silent support she had when she was - unknown to others - on the verge of breaking down, on the far end of the balancing beam.

In retrospect, Stella was not much different from Sherlock, Ida reckoned. She was just as human, if not more; she merely used the ice-cold exterior as a facade.

The girl in question took out a box, caressed it gently and put it back into her bag. She would make sure it went home with her - it was too precious to leave at Harrington's for a whole summer.

* * *

"Judy," the woman coaxed her out of the corner she was currently staying at. "Don't you want to know more about them?"

The brown-haired woman looked up, eyes glazed over, and stared at her as if she was transparent.

"What?"

"Don't be alarmed," she whispered. "But she's colder than ice."

* * *

 

A black-haired, middle-aged woman stood in front of the blue-eyed girl, scrutinising her. The teenager remained stoic, eyes unwavering as she tried not to judge the woman that almost broke Ida.

"Pleased to meet you, Stella."

"The pleasure's all mine, Mrs. Cameron. I hope I was not intruding."

"Nonsense," she dismissed with a wave of the hand. "It's rare to see Ida bring friends over, I'm glad she has one."

Stella merely smiled.

The elder woman suddenly perked up, as if she remembered something. "And thank you for pulling out the thief the other day - you really took after your father with the deduction. Is he doing well?"

It sent a jolt of pain in her heart, for this woman would never know the role that her mother played in her life. She was not purely her father; she had genes from both her parents. One being missing would not deprive her of this connection.

"He is. Thank you, I will pass along your regards."

If she had a mother, even if one that was as uncaring towards her daughter (Mrs Cameron cared more for her than her own daughter, good merciful heavens) - it would suffice. It had been more than ten years since Mother was abducted; with all these years passed, she was beginning to lose hope. Hope that her mother was alive, hope that her body would be found.

It was torturous.

Sherlock was waiting for her when she arrived at the Waterloo station, a sleek sedan on idle on the side of the road. Stella merely raised an eyebrow, before taking her travel bag and settling it in the trunk. She arranged for the rest of her boxes be couriered to Baker Street a few days prior to her arrival; bringing three bags to Ida's house would be hardly ideal.

"How was your stay at the Camerons?" The taller man started, hoping to strike up a conversation.

She shrugged. "It went well. Mrs Cameron sent her regards."

"What for?" This got him intrigued. In spite of Stella's reluctance to be associated by her family - not that she wasn't proud of her family - she had somehow allowed the connections be drawn.

"One solved incident of theft. Hardly challenging, the man confessed everything once I caught him taking from the box. Simple logical flow of events."

"What did he steal?"

Stella was unfazed by her father's question, and stared out of the window. "Something sentimental."

The mist clouding her eyes didn't escape his attention, and he wondered what was stolen that evoked such reaction from Stella. Seeing how she was on the verge of crumbling, he wisely kept his mouth shut.

Even though he was dying to tell Stella that they were about to close Molly's case.

* * *

 

She had expected it, but not coming from Isabel's mouth.

"What... what do you mean?"

"You'll know soon, Judy. I am so sorry."

* * *

 

"Oh, for God's sake, Adler!" The Consulting Detective yelled as his phone made that godforsaken sound—the distinct moaning of The Woman. He ignored the text, but after three consecutive texts from her, he decided to give her a piece of his mind and picked up his phone. The notifications on his screen, however, made him abandon his prior decision, and he called her instead.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," she purred, and Sherlock scowled.

"Irene Adler. Are you absolutely certain?"

"Oh, of course I am, Mr Holmes. Aren't you happy to see your wife again after eight years? Your lifelong experiment and conquest? What a pity you both are so loyal and fai—"

Sherlock cut the line, firing off a text to Mycroft. "Send me the security footage of Bart's rooftop. Now. —SH"

Once he got the footage, accompanied by a "good luck, brother dear" reply, he immediately set to analyze the woman captured on the footage. She had brown hair, recently dyed and faded; Caucasian, aged around forty; concealed the fact that she was married. Wore the ring when alone to remember her family—child, no, daughter. Steady hands, possibly a surgeon. Has a cheerful demeanor but socially awkward; works in the morgue, that is. Possibly pathologist.

At that, Sherlock's mind was reeling, racing at a mile a second. Her choice of clothing weren't Molly's, but the way she carried herself definitely showed traces and hints of the pathologist who worked at Bart's, the same pathologist whom Sherlock married eighteen years ago.

"Identity ascertained. Dr. Molly Holmes, née Hooper, is on Bart's rooftop. My men just carried out a thorough checkup with Dr. Holmes. Physically in good condition, psychological state unstable. Excitement. —MH"

"Should I summon Stella? —SH"

"I imagine my niece would be excited to see her mother. —MH"

Sherlock nodded, musing over the situation; and then fired off a text to his daughter.. "Meet me at Bart's rooftop. Urgent. —SH"

* * *

 

In a quiet corner of the House of Parliament, a mobile phone vibrated, startling the adolescent who was squinting at her own messy handwritten notes.

"Meet me at Bart's rooftop. Urgent. —SH", her father texted. Knowing better than replying and receiving no replies, Stella pulled herself onto her feet and donned her coat. Stuffing her notes into the pockets of her black coat she held onto her phone, striding to the street and flagged a cab. Once safely in the confines of the cab her phone vibrated again, signaling another text.

"Oh, Stella, a great surprise is in store for you later. —I."

"Who's this? —Stella"

"They call me The Whip Hand, he calls me The Woman. —I."

"Pleased to make an acquaintance, Ms Adler. —Stella"

Stella then turned off the vibration on her phone, and slid her phone into her coat pocket. She linked her fingers together in her lap as she juggled the possibilities and meaning behind Ms. Adler's and her father's message. Both had written cryptically, as if trying to conceal something from her. According to her father's accounts, if Irene Adler didn't write annoying, seductive things in her texts, she was usually being serious. What was the surprise, and what was so urgent? It didn't take a Holmes to guess that the two texts were connected; possibly Ms. Adler texted her father, her father then texted her, then Ms. Adler.

A wave of dread suddenly washed over her. Bart's rooftop.

_Bart's rooftop._

Stella hadn't been born when her father faked his death; but she knew he jumped off Bart's rooftop, and her mother used to work at Bart's as well. Thus if her father demanded her presence at Bart's it was for two reasons: he was working on a case and needed assistance; or something greatly important to both her parents were going to happen - which had not occurred yet in her life. Not daring to make any wild guesses without the solid grounds of evidence she paid the cabbie, them hopped off the taxi. She ran towards the hospital and dashed into an elevator—thank goodness nobody was in it nor waiting for it—and pressed the button for the top floor. Once she arrived she sprinted to the stairs leading to the rooftop, meeting her father at the door.

"Stella," Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. "After you," he said, gesturing her to go onto the rooftop. Their coats billowed at their shin, trailing behind them. Sherlock lagged behind Stella, observing her moves; and it was so, so similar to his final moments, just before he denounced himself in front of John and leapt.

The detective's daughter walked forward, her hands clasped behind her back, and inspected the solitary woman standing in front of her, facing Stella with her profile.  _Hair mostly brown, with streaks of blonde at the ends. Hair dyed, but faded and grown out._

The observation of the hair, its brown shade eerily resembling her own, and she stiffened. She didn't know when Sherlock caught up with her and stop by her side, also blankly staring in shock and unable to believe their eyes. He murmured, barely stopping himself from stuttering in shock.

"Molly?"

The brunette jumped, unused to the sound of the name she hadn't adopted in seven years; and more so, the deep, low, resonating baritone that accompanied the utterance of her first name. Turning around, while getting used to seeing things without the coloured contact lenses, she saw two figures clad in black coats. One was tall, with a mop of shocking black curls at the top of his head. His nose was tall with an aristocratic turn, his cheekbones high and pronounced. The white sclera surrounding the ice-blue irises grew larger as his eyes widened, taking in the sight of the woman who counted the most.

She then turned to look at the other figure. She was wearing black heeled sneakers, with indigo skinny jeans and a blue-black shirt beneath the coat. There was white embroidering around the collars, cuffs and buttonholes, giving the coat an individualistic twist. Her brown eyes travelled up and rested on the strange girl's face. Skin white as alabaster, eyes of a colour similar to the man in Belstaff beside her, hair of the identical shade and style as hers—

"Clara?" Molly whispered, afraid that it was a dream, a fantasy that would disappear into thin air when provoked by an astonished exclamation.

She had never dreamed that this day would come again - the day when she had to part with her daughter was the worst one that she had ever lived through.

"Clara?" She took one step further. "Mildred—Millie, is this really you?"

"Stella," the young girl corrected.

The older woman's disbelief in her eyes did not escape the indescribable gaze of the detective's daughter.

"It's Stella Holmes," she repeated, her piercing blue eyes set in a hard stare. Stella struggled to keep her eyes dry, but tears stubbornly gathered, threatening to flow from the broken dam in the moat. Fists clenched, knuckles white, she gritted her teeth. The pang in her younger girl's heart, and in her mind, was shattering — nobody had called her by Clara since her mother was abducted by the men. It had been Molly's exclusive nickname for her, being the little clarinet player in the household that brought music other than her father's sawing away at the violin at ungodly hours.

With the cessation of her clarinet playing she let the name Clara be locked in the darkest attic in her castle, yet Molly's whisper was the key that forced the lock open and brought it to light again.

She never picked up the clarinet again after the abduction, and the flute became where she could further find solace in instead.

Emotions flashed across Stella's eyes, and Molly read every single one of them clearly.  _Disbelief. Struggle. Shock. Anger. Pain_. She might not be skilled in deduction like Sherlock, but she discerned sentiments, and mourned at the fact that Stella closed herself off so completely, so scarily like her father after The Fall. The detective's pathologist stepped forward, and crushed her daughter into her arms. "Oh, Clara, You're really here.."

Stubbornly Stella stood with her back painfully straight, unused to the foreign, but familiar embrace.

"I'm really here, my child. I really am."

She felt one treacherous tear slide down her cheeks, and raised a hand to wipe it away swiftly.

Another tear followed.

Then another.

Every time she wiped one tear away, another trail of crystals would fall and make her cheeks glitter in the dim light. As her father stepped near the embrace she looked up, and her father's eyes began to fill with pain.

_She... She was so broken._

He pursed his lips, briefly accessed the scenario, and found Molly's hands on their daughter's back. Lacing his fingers with his pathologist's he rested his palm on the small of his Stella's back, offering a silent consolation. And as the mess of black curls shielded the light from Stella's vision and she could no longer see the light, she succumbed to darkness, letting the warm tears seep unrelentingly through the cracks in the ice and cracks in the walls.

Ice could not contain warmth for long. In Darkness, where there were no Light, the ice would thaw even quicker. Stella was proven wrong swiftly that she was not as cold as she wanted people to believe, but she could not bring herself to care. There was one sole question only in her mind -  _why?_


	9. Chapter 9

A scream pierced through the eerily silent air of 221B Baker Street at three am in the morning.

Sherlock and Molly had both been asleep, and roused from their slumber by the harrowing shriek down the hall. Judging from the lack of movement heard, there were no burglars. That left only one option as to the cause of the scream -

Another yell tore the temporary silence in the flat. The Holmes couple looked at each other, donned their gowns and quickly walked to their daughter's room. Slowly prying it open, they saw a slender silhouette against the pale moonlight and street lights. Stella hunched over, unmoving, not making a single noise except for taking rapid, tense breaths.

The detective's heart clenched. Turning to look at Molly, who was about to slip inside the room to put an arm around their daughter, he softly shook his head. "Not now," he mouthed.

Taking his wife by the hand, he led them back to their bedroom. Once they were settled and snuggling beneath a duvet, Sherlock began.

"She wasn't always like this," he whispered, referring to Stella. She had been cheerful and outgoing; not so happy as when you were here of course, dear; but it all changed when she came back for summer last year."

The former pathologist swallowed. "How?"

A single word was all that she uttered. She had recognised that her daughter - she still struggled to call her  _Stella_  rather than  _Millie_  or  _Clara_  - was no longer the same, but it was to expected. She just didn't expect her to retreat into a shell that was more hollow, and much colder than the one Sherlock and Mycroft encased themselves in.

The shell that she was all too familiar with before she took the Holmes name.

He shrugged.

She blankly stared. "There had to be a reason, Sherlock."

"I... I honestly have no clue."

This earned him a raised eyebrow. He took this as a cue to continue.

"It hadn't been easy for Stella, Molly, to grow without a mother. Mary was the closest thing to a mother she would ever get, but it wasn't enough. Anthea was not much help, but still better than none. Going to Harrington was her own choice, and boarding schools change people. I knew it would, I should have stopped her from going."

At this point, Molly held up a hand, wanting to interrupt. Sherlock merely raised his hand in response, laced their fingers together, and lowered their hands such that he was absent-mindedly caressing the back of her hand.

"I noticed it when she started trading the t-shirts for blouses, and it was acceptable and made sense because it would save the hassle of buying a few sets of Sunday, Saturday, Wednesday wear and whatnot. A few years went by, and she came back after finishing year ten; that was when she turned up in all black clothing in the middle of summer."

Molly sniffled. "Was there...was there anything else?"

"Not that I am aware of. John and I ensured that Stella knew I am  _not_  a fraud, and she knew people slandering me had nothing to do with me or her or you, for the matter. I then had a theory, that maybe people were slandering her, but I never had the proof."

He paused, and silence filled the room again. Both their brilliant minds were whirling, and Molly took great pleasure and comfort in resting her head on her husband's shoulder. It was one of the many things she missed when she was away in Australia, under the instructions of Irene Adler, in a bid to protect her life.

"Maybe you're right," Molly whispered. "Family matters alone do not make a teenage girl as drained as Clara - I mean Stella - looks."

This time, it was Sherlock who raised an eyebrow.

"I know the signs, Sherlock, that a person is depressed and there is nothing they could do to change it. So they keep themselves isolated, hoping they wouldn't ever be hurt again."

Silence ensued.

"You mean..."

"Yes, like how you and Mycroft acted those years ago. For the two of you, it was a result of prolonged emotional challenge in your boyhood days and the walls strengthened when you both started working." Molly explained. "But, for Stella, something very serious must have triggered it. Only slandering wouldn't cause such strong walls; if it involved things she cherished the most and broke her, it would be more likely to make her build up such unbreakable walls."

Her hand slowly travelled to her husband's face - oh, how did she miss him - and her thumb gently caressed his cheek. Raising her head slightly, her gaze met Sherlock's levelly. "Stella is not colder than ice, love. In her heart, she's warmer than fire, with a shell made of ice. And when the fire wants to escape the ice gates..."

"...nightmares ensue."

* * *

 

When Stella screamed herself awake - and in the process, waking the entire Holmes household - Sherlock realised it was getting out of hand, and indeed worrying. Thankfully, Molly was out and about, having found her job back again at the morgue but as a consultant, and only Sherlock and Stella were in the flat.

Bloody hell. He decided to take it back, he was  _not_  thankful. He didn't know how to deal with Stella without his wife acting as his psyche, but god _damn_  that he was her father, and that scream was downright haunting.

Hoping to save the embarrassment that he would knock and enter Stella's room, further scaring her, he chose to mark the time she woke up (as how he had been doing for the weeks after Molly came back; the nightmares were the most rampant at around 3am, and recurred daily), and laid in bed, thinking.

His Mind Palace didn't fail him in recounting memories, but was absolutely shite in trying to figure out how to tell Stella that there was more to life than suppressed horrors.

One thing he figured, was that Stella was his daughter as much as Molly's, and one thing that she would  _hate_  was for someone to push her when she's not ready, and clearly struggling to sleep again.

He waited till the morning, waking up earlier than Stella and caught her as she came down for a drink. Sherlock spoke up.

"Would you like peppermint tea instead? Makes you less jittery than tea."

Clearly surprised, Stella nodded mutely.

"I have brewed a pot, it's by the stove. Your mother is still at the morgue, and she should be back before lunchtime."

She raised an eyebrow, not quite understanding the direction which this conversation was going.

Sherlock sighed, mirroring his daughter's face. "Tea?"

Stella complied noiselessly.

"It's a hard conversation, when my daughter is refusing to talk to me."

"Really?" Stella tilted her head.

"Yeah. She's been only giving me one-worded responses since she woke up this morning."

"Was that the case?"

Sherlock smirked mirthlessly. "That was a four-worded one, thank you very much."

They lulled into a comfortable silence, exacerbated by the small clang of china hitting against the saucers. He decided to take that as a hint to continue - rather, to abruptly start what he was about to say.

"I know you have night terrors."

The astonished look on Stella's face - no, it rivalled absolute  _horror_  for her life.

"Your screams are quite loud."

She was petrified. "Dad —"

"And I won't force you to see a shrink."

Visibly relieved, but still tense, Stella struggled for words. After a few heavy breaths, she uttered. "Thanks."

"Not a problem."

The father and daughter duo drank their drinks in silence, before Sherlock decided to broach the grave topic. "What were they about?"

She quirked an eyebrow, the china not leaving her lips.

"The nightmares," he clarified.

Stella went rigid. "Nothing. Things I should've been able to handle and ignore," she gritted.

This time, it was Sherlock's turn to look confused. "Stella, what —"

"No, dad. It's not that. It's, it's — bloody hell."

Her hands trembled and the tea spilt over her sweatpants. Setting it down on the side table with a clang, she continued looking at her lap, slightly shaking. Her father pretended he wasn't jumping from joy that Stella was calling him  _dad_ instead of  _Father_ like in the past year, he pretended that he didn't notice his daughter was on the verge of tears, but his heart ached. Wordlessly he nudged the tissue box closer to her, as a silent consolation, though he could cross his heart and swear that Stella wouldn't as much as glance at it.

Sherlock took it as a cue to begin. "We Holmes believe that caring is a disadvantage — Mycroft and I probably have mentioned this while you were in earshot when you were young, causing it to be deeply ingrained into your conscience. I apologise. It was never our intention to, and it's proven wrong to us.

"Caring is a strength rather than a hindrance, you'll be successful in life, Stella. This is how we solve crimes — we never overlook the details, we focus on the criminal; but if we let sentiments decide our actions for some moments, such as when we interrogate suspects and victims' families, we can often yield unexpected results." His mind flowed to the Ambassador's children, though it wasn't his fault. It wasn't.

He remembered to breathe. "John and your mother have told me — a lot of times, in fact — that caring is an advantage, and I had refused to believe it until I was forced to jump off the roof to save their lives. Had I not jumped, they would've died, you wouldn't have been born; and even if I had demolished Moriarty's network, I would never forgive myself for choosing the Consulting Criminal over those who care about me."

He stood up, and patted her shoulder. "Sentiment is a double-edged sword; but I trust you will be able to wield the weapon wisely, Stella."

She watched her father turn and put his now-empty mug into the sink, the brown-haired girl sitting on what used to be John's armchair.

Except that this time, the roles were reversed.

* * *

 

The screams continued few months in, but Sherlock was glad that they were less frequent than before. When it lulled into once per week, Sherlock decided it was safe to talk to Stella about what her night terrors entailed.

And at that point of time, he already had a pretty good inkling of what made her scream as if she was murdered by every single criminal he had all caught and put behind bars. So when he was up one night (on the pretence that he was on a case, and the said pretence failed once he saw Stella going to pour herself a glass of water), he caught sight of his daughter tiptoeing into the kitchen, he decided that it was time to broach the topic.

"You managed to wake up from it."

Stella had been expecting to hear her father.

"What?"

"From the terrors," Sherlock clarified. "Your nightmares."

With a glass of water in her hand, she sat on one of the chairs, settling the glass on the dining table. Sherlock followed suit, sitting across her.

"I wouldn't call them terrors," she finally replied. "They're the worst memories in your mind, replaying and continuing to torment your mind."

"I figured."

"You did?"

"I may have been emotionally inept, but you're still your mother's daughter. This is something that torments Molly too."

Stella remained silent, waiting for her father to continue.

He swallowed. "Since your mum returned, she's also been tossing and turning every night, and reaching out to me subconsciously when I woke up before her."

That piqued her interest.

"We have not talked a lot about this. But Stella, when you were five —"

"Stop. Dad, just — stop." Her hands were shaking.

He snapped. "She was protecting us!"

A pair of ice blue eyes stared straight into Sherlock's, irises dilated from shock. Her father never snapped at her. Never.

"The people that took your mum, they wanted to take you away, as ransom, or as a bargaining chip. They wanted you as leverage against Mycroft, against me, and against the British government. They wanted to see Molly break, and find a way to get to me eventually. The optimum choice was you. But your mother thawed their plans, told them you were with Mary, and saved you first and foremost. The rest never came to her mind until she was taken to a safe house. She lived under nine aliases - more than one every year, moved to different countries, and stayed alive so she could come back to us. To you.

"I know this won't be the only thing tormenting you. Something must have happened at Harrington's and I don't need you to tell me. It just… it just frustrates me that I can't talk to my daughter without her treating me like a stranger! I don't know what the hell is going on, but she is clearly having night terrors from several trauma all compressed and exploding once her mum returned."

The outburst scared Stella. She had never seen her dad so emotional, and she had deemed this the Holmes trait. It was the survival technique that she swore by, which saved her grades, ensuring that she could finish GCSEs, go on to A Levels and…

She was lost there. What did she really want to do with life, now that the very definitive things already swayed?

"Who is Stella Holmes?"

She whispered, reverberating in the silence that permeated 221B late at night.

"She is a talented, beautiful young lady who has been through shit in life, but still chooses to fight on."

Father and daughter turned to the doorway with a start. There stood Molly, clearly eavesdropping, but nobody saw her. They were too engrossed in their conversation to notice.

"When did you come back?"

"When you decided to sit with our daughter and attempt to be a father. Mike let me off consulting early tonight," Molly replied, then turned to Stella.

"Do you prefer Stella or Millie, or Clara?"

Stella was at a loss.

_Who was she?_

At last, she answered. "Stella, for now."

Molly smiled, taking a seat next to her daughter. "It's alright to be confused - look at your father. Going by the middle name seems to run in the family."

At this, Sherlock shoot a very unamused glare at Molly. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes is hardly a becoming name."

"It's better than Mycroft," Molly shot back. Stella snickered. Apparently making fun of Uncle Mycroft ran in the family. Then, she looked up, confused. "Your first name was  _William_?"

He groaned. "Unfortunately."

"He'd claim so," Molly continued, "but I digress. It's okay to be confused; I'd be worried if you don't have an identity crisis at all. You've grown up into a fine lady without me for what, almost ten years, and now that I'm back, you lost that label of 'I don't have a mum'. It's confusing."

She sat back, the glass of water forgotten. Mum and Dad sat next to the teenager as she went inside her Mind Castle, all lost in thoughts.

They remained sitting until they heard the first chirp of the birds, till they saw the first ray of sunshine peeking in through the curtains. Stella stood and went to open the curtains, letting the sunshine spill into the living room and kitchen. Inside her room she went, while her mum talked to her dad about some interesting finds at work. Physiology was never her thing; she preferred finding solace in words.

And sharing that, it was a big step.

She dug into her drawers, retrieved a book, pulled on a shirt and jeans, and went downstairs again to meet her parents. Both of them turned: one face warm and inviting; one looking curious, nonetheless soft around the brown eyes. They silently encouraged her to speak, sliding a mug across the table to her.

"It's, it's something I wrote."

The parents exchanged a look.

"Please —"

"Darling, we won't read it when you're in the room."

Her lips quirked up into a smile involuntarily. To her surprise, Sherlock and Molly knew her better than she imagined.

"I suppose you won't object to me taking a walk, then?"

Molly smiled. "Go on, just remember to wear a scarf."

"Molly, she went to boarding school for God's sake, she knows —"

A small laugh escaped her lips as she tugged on her boots. It was refreshing but strangely comforting to see her parents banter over small matters.

Putting on her coat and wrapping a scarf around her neck, she vaguely formed an idea where she would be going.

"I'm going out," she called out.

She descended the stairs into the early London air, and breathed in the humidity. A small smile graced her lips - a welcome change and strange feeling: she couldn't remember the last time she felt so free.

Maybe it had all been in her head.

Perhaps, just perhaps, she could let the fire thaw the ice inside.

**_- FIN -_ **


End file.
